


Wanderlust

by distinguished_like



Series: Come And Go With Me [3]
Category: George Harrison - Fandom, John Lennon - Fandom, Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles, ringo starr - Fandom
Genre: 1950s, 1960s, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Beatles Slash, Come And Go With Me, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Humour, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, OC, OCs - Freeform, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sequel, Sexual Assault, Sexual Content, Smut, Wanderlust, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2018-12-14 22:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distinguished_like/pseuds/distinguished_like
Summary: Where once there were two oblivious teenage boys, there were now two cynical and unprepared young adults. Their journey had been one of constant fluctuations, of deep and intoxicating love, of anger and passion, of home - now, flitting between Liverpool and Hamburg and the rest of the world, John and Paul must make decisions. Decisions about their band, their future, but perhaps most crucially, their own intricate complex, in all its entirety.A (Optional) Sequel to Come And Go With Me.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> I'm super super nervous about this - I'm really hoping to be able to carry this on for a while to get myself back into writing (finally), but it really depends on you guys (no pressure). Please let me know what you think about this chapter, and all of the chapters to come. It really does mean the absolute world to me.  
> Also, you can find me on tumblr at distinguished-like.tumblr.com. Please head on over there for updates, and feel absolutely free to ask/message me about absolutely anything! I could really use the help, ideas for where you'd like the story to go, or just the general companionship!
> 
> A/N - the first couple of paragraphs of this were taken from an incredibly old birthday post I once made for an old friend of mine, Helena, adjusted to help inspire me to start of this fic.  
> Important - if you haven't already, PLEASE head over to my ao3 account and read Celebrations - it's an Extra for Come And Go With Me I wrote for Helena's birthday on a separate occasion, but it is still canon in this fic - it's only a oneshot but it does get a couple of mentions so to avoid any confusion, it might be worth giving it a read!
> 
> Thank you all for your kind words already. 
> 
> Also - 
> 
> I make no official accusations to the sexuality of the characters involved; it is solely a work of fiction, and I do not own any characters or places mentioned.
> 
> All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> (additionally: if you wanna talk to me or others about this fic (or come and go with me!!) please use the tag "come and go with me series" on tumblr, it'd be fab to see your thoughts and discussions and stuff about this!)

**August 13 th 1960**

There’s something undeniable and vast in the river.

It isn’t quite like the vastness of the oceans that are just so overpoweringly large and seemingly infinite that you can get lost above them with nothing to hold onto. With the river, you can see over to the other side with ease and when you look from left to right, from east to west, you can see civilisation bustling about, life occurring before your eyes, because the docks are never empty and the roads are seldom bare. In this way, the river is never still nor quiet.

Somehow, the river is inconstant and temperamental, changing, an everlasting state of flux.

That night, the sky was red. Seared red, creeping between the clouds which frame the setting sun like a canvas, lining the horizon, naked veins against white light. The rooftops litter the horizon, a rugged intonation – up and down and half-way there, as inconstant as the river’s temperament.

The river was a cocktail of colour, a divine tribute to a strong cosmopolitan, pinks and oranges pulling a façade over the wastes of the Mersey, the litter from the streets, the dump from the docks, the fluids from the slums. Stained were the waves with reflections of smoke, rising, corrupting the sky.

The sun was setting on the precipice of Birkenhead, meeting the horizon of the estuary with one all-consuming kiss. It set, from where Paul was sat, behind the Gothic walls of the Liverpool Cathedral, with each west-facing stone reflecting a slightly off-shade of orange, unique and in transition.

Smoke blurred the view, the piercing smell of tobacco corrupting the air in _just_ the right way. The street below was in decline, crowds becoming sparse, roads becoming bare. Paul felt the way nature was telling him that the day was coming to a close, that the region was in a temporary, transitory period. He wondered, then, why he felt so eternal – ageless and immortal, vulnerable and inconstant all at once.

“Will you miss it,” John sighed after a drag of his cigarette. “When we’re not here anymore?”

The question had an existential ring to it that Paul had to fight not to address. “No,” he answered – truthful, at the time. “I’ll miss the familiarity, but that sorta’ stuff’s subjective, init?”

He heard John exhale loudly from beside him, so he averted his gaze from the urban landscape. John was sat with his back slumped over his bent knee, where his elbow, clad in a thick maroon jumper, balanced precariously, his cigarette tipped upwards between his fingers, smoke drifting around them, encompassing them. In the setting of the day, John’s hair was light and auburn, curls twisting and radiating with every curve. His iris’ glowed shamelessly, his cheeks bore a gentle blush, his lips pale from smoking. His jumper was stained, but it almost looked deliberate – stained and worn, wise and bold. He, too, gazed intensely over the edge of the roof they sat on, eyes lost in the crevices of the Cathedral or the seas of surrounding trees or the shamelessness of the river. A shadow loomed over the bottom half of his face, threatening to tip over his nose, his eyes, eventually consuming him – consuming both of them – whole, as night finally, tumultuously, drew them in.

“Subjective…” John repeated, eyebrows furrowing. Paul sat with his legs crossed, arms back, palms cold and flat against the stone beneath them. If he twitched his finger slightly, he felt John’s jeans graze the tip, snagging on his nail. So close that Paul could smell the underlying familiar scent of Mimi’s house, despite John not having lived there for months now. He could smell the grease in John’s hair. The acrylic paint beneath his nails, saturating his jumper. The cologne he had not yet washed out of his pores from the night before.

“Are you okay?” Paul inquired, because it was evident all too quickly that John was losing it a little, what with the existential beauty of the sunset before them, what with the intimacy they radiated when alone together, what with the ball of their lives rolling and rolling and rolling and _rolling._

“I’ll miss it, s’all,” John admitted, lip raised in a melancholy smile. Paul doubted it – John wanted more than Liverpool, always had, always would. He let out an airy chuckle, lifting one slightly numb palm and placing it over John’s knuckles, lacing their fingers together, the fragile thread holding them together.

Paul grazed his blistered thumb across the back of John’s soft, slightly tanned hand, along his knuckles, along the veins that trickled down to his wrist. “You won’t,” he argued, after a moment of daunting silence. “We’ve come too far for that sort of talk, now.”

“Everything’s going to be so – so _different,_ ” John croaked out, like it pained him to say it. “A different country, different mates, a different _us,”_ he choked on the last word. His eyes clenched shut. Delicate wrinkles appeared on either side of them, and Paul felt his heart melt, ever so slightly. “I’m finding it really hard to be as – as excited as I expected.”

“About Hamburg?” Paul asked incredulously. He licked his lips thoughtfully, they were cold and a little numb. The tip of the shadow hovered on the bridge of his nose.

“About everything,” John laughed, a sweet and broken sound. “About – y’know, change and that. Scary, init?” For the first time, he looked at Paul. His cigarette had now become a neglected tube of ash preparing to collapse. Paul tilted his head to look into John’s softened stare, and he _lived_ for this. No one was as close to John as Paul was, he knew, nor vice versa. The vulnerability of John was a decisive rarity, but an extraordinarily beautiful rarity, at that. A rarity that Paul had the privilege to witness whenever it made an appearance, a rarity that Paul had come to cherish. “I – you know I love you, yeah?”

“I love you too,” Paul responded, not skipping a beat. He squeezed John’s hand, felt the amalgamate edges of his fingertips trace John’s skin, grinding along every detail.

John smiled tightly. His eyes were black, the shadow of the small wall in front of them covering them almost entirely now. A swarm of pigeons, beautiful in their blurred silhouettes, fled from the bells of the Cathedral and decorated the sky. Paul’s head followed them as they headed down the river, towards the estuary. His eyes, inevitably, settled back on John’s, radiant but absent.

“It will be okay, you know,” Paul laughed, breathlessly. Shaking a short curl of his hair away from his eyelashes, smiling tightly. He tried to believe in what he was saying, tried to block out the currents of fear and of petrifying uncertainty. It was difficult. He’d had more doubts than anybody, originally – what with the looming pressure of his dad, of his lack of sturdy employment, of Dot, who he’d been dating for a good while now. It was all too much pressure, he knew. He had to block it all out, now – this couldn’t be his life any longer. He just had to – _live._

“Aye,” John said. “It’ll have to be.”

Finally, he dropped his cigarette to the floor of the roof. Submerged in darkness, now, they watched the sun trickling down into the river. The horns of ships echoed around them, a good few hundred yards away now, but still creating a sort of sullen soundtrack to Liverpool, in all its urban glory.

“Promise me somethin’,” John’s voice came out sharp and sudden. Paul looked back at him – their hands were still linked together, radiating warmth between them that the rest of their bodies’ lacked.

John was gazing at Paul, but his eyelids were squinted and his lips were pursed, like he was angry but… what _for?_ It didn’t make sense, right now, but then when had John ever? When had _they_ ever, collectively?

“Depends what,” Paul offered, smiling half-heartedly, trying to make light of it all. If John was having doubts _now,_ Paul had to put a stop to it. They didn’t have _time._

John smiled and shook his head languidly, closing his eyes softly and taking a long and clear breath in through his nose. John’s fingers gripped Paul’s tighter, a knot between them. Paul’s stomach churned in anticipation, in a moderate dose of fear.

“Just...” John sighed. “Just, stay with me, yeah?” He looked up at Paul again. Paul’s heart halted to a stop, skipped a nervous beat. “Stay. I mean it. I can’t… I can’t lose _this,_ not _this_ familiarity. I mean, if we’ve gotta’ give up all the rest. Give up Liverpool and that. I know that givin’ that up is worth it but… not you. Not right now,” _maybe not ever,_ Paul thought, but shook it away as quickly as it came. He’d give his life to John, if he could, but somehow, he pre-emptively knew that that couldn’t be the case, not for anybody like them. Not yet.

Paul blinked a few times. “Uh… Yeah, Johnny,” he stumbled over his words. “I… uh… promise that I’ll, uh, stay. With you,” he clenched his eyes shut for a second in some mild form of embarrassment. He swallowed, then opened them again. John looked as though he was sat on the edge of his seat, in lieu of his lack of, well, seat. He was leaning forward, his head above Paul’s, looking down at him, his mouth open in a long and silent gasp. “If you, y’know…” Paul continued. “Want me to – but, like – uh, you too, okay?”

He didn’t quite understand why it took so much to say. They’d promised things before, he was sure – Paul had already promised to, strictly speaking, _come and go_ with John, which he had assumed covered all bases including, y’know, _staying_ with him. But John needed these reassurances often, Paul had discovered. Needed verbal promises – needed them over and over and over again.

John laughed a quiet and airy laugh. He disentangled their fingers, shaking Paul off him. Paul’s hand turned cold. John stood up, dusting off his bum and his thighs, placing his hands on his hips and looking briefly off across the Mersey, then back at the door to his and Stuart’s flat (a term Paul still loathed to use), then back down to Paul. He smiled. “Think that goes without saying, don’t you?” He said.

Paul sat, dumbstruck, for a moment longer. In a way, he was comforted by John’s words. It warmed him, somewhat, to know that John loved him, still, after all this time, and that he still needed to trust that Paul wasn’t going anywhere other than where John was.

_Because where you go, I feel like I should be._

He watched John walk away from him, walking slowly but with intent. He opened the door, entered the flat, and Paul waited for him to be completely out of sight to allow himself a real smile. It didn’t matter, he’d decided. They _would_ be okay. Everything would be okay.

It absolutely had to be.

He’d promised.

***

**March 26 th 1961**

It had been a while, Paul knew.

It felt like decades since he had first met John Lennon, young and boyish and awestruck. He was an adult now – he couldn’t deny that fact anymore. Things had changed. He remembered his story – the tale which became the story of the _two of them_ , their complex in its intricate entirety, but it was easy to forget these days. Too easy. He wondered, constantly, when they would next spend a day together, uninterrupted, or when they would next share a secret moment of pure love, not even necessarily sex, just _something._

Everything comes to a close eventually though. He’d been pondering life a lot in this sort of manner as of late, full of cynicisms and rather extraordinary questions that he knew couldn’t truly be answered. Assumedly, it’s because it was their final night playing in Liverpool again for any undetermined period of time, as they’ll be back off to Hamburg in a couple of days, and that night just seemed like the end of some sort of era for him, for all of them.

The Casbah Club is busy as ever but suddenly even Paul, the supposed optimist of the group, is starting to come to terms with the fact that the club that they’d all strived towards playing in in the old days is nowhere near as wild as he had originally believed it to be, because at that moment he was sat huddled next to the Ladies toilets with John and George and Pete and some lads were half way through a bizarrely slower rendition of Long Tall Sally which simply isn’t a song for traditional waltzing, yet still Paul spied a bouncer splitting up one couple who must have been getting a bit too close for his comfort, and he knew full well that the drinks being served were in no way alcoholic because alcohol wasn’t even served there anymore unless you managed to sneak some in yourself, and your bag gets searched before you get to enter the basement. Somehow, though, the lights reflecting around the room, yellows and oranges, are floating in clustered orbs and flittering over them all like a scene from a mythical fairy-tale with fairies and pixies pecking their cheeks and their noses and it felt somewhat magical because now Paul knew that all of _this_ was about the music and the dancing and the socialising, and it gave it a more sorrowful feeling than your typical club – this would all be over for them soon, he knew.

The horizon foretells better things for the boys, now accompanied on their escapades and their rapidly ascending profile back in Britain by Pete Best, Mona’s boy, and honestly, everything looked great for The Silver Beetles. It’s early-1961 now, a few more months into a bright new year, a bright new adventure, a book of pages for them to fill with their hopes and their accomplishments and their mistakes and their love.

 _Love_.

John’s laugh swiped smoothly through the rising intonation of the music like a light in the fog and Paul’s eyes raised from his (cheekily, expertly, spiked with vodka) diet coke, tuning into the sight in front of him now, focusing on John. They brought back the leather gear for this one, preparing for Hamburg; they’d kept it casual recently, saving their energy for the inevitably harrowing experience of Hamburg for the second time around, and now it was their chance to let themselves go, as far as they were concerned. Let themselves be raucous and crazy and _young,_ presenting as the rock n’ roll stars they longed to be – the rock n’ roll stars they were now, finally, _becoming._

His gaze drifted from John quickly after it had landed on him. The distance seemed too much to bear.

The truth is, just like their first time in Hamburg, John and Paul had not really ‘fallen out’. They’d just drifted apart again, losing themselves in everything else that occupied their minds in recent months.

John seemed a little more into this whole separation-complex than Paul was.

They had rekindled their romance once, on the 8th of January. Well, now it was March, and there had been nothing since.

Paul tried it on with him one time, a little drunk but mostly just curious. They were packing up their belongings after a lunchtime show at the Cavern, in the back, and Paul deliberately waited for George, Pete and Stuart to leave because he had to see, had to know, if this would work. It had to work.

He took a hold of John’s wrist, spun him around, brought him close.

He looked at him first, just to _see_. To see if he’d pull away straight away.

John was still caked in sweat, his hair nothing short of a mess, matted and darker in certain clumps due to the deteriorating, soggy hair gel he had applied earlier. He still lacked his glasses, so he squinted at Paul through brown eyelashes, looking down at him like he was superior. He’d started shaving at some point over the last couple of years too, of course, so the bottom half of his face was littered in trails of open pores with his stubble trying to peak through again. Paul raised his hand and caressed John’s jawline, grazing his finger over it softly, the sheer masculinity it emulated sending chills down his spine. John hadn’t pulled away from him yet. This was fine. _It was going to be okay_.

“Paul, what do you want?” John snapped, though it shocked Paul that more than anything his voice came out as sad. Not hopeful, as it may once have done, or even polite. Not angry as was easily an option at this point – he appeared mournful, distressed, looking like he really couldn’t be doing with any of this right now. Paul tilted John’s chin up to look him in the eye, now -  honey, golden brown meeting sharp hazel, again, a move that in the past had _always_ been a catalyst for an intense interaction. Always.

Just… not this time.

“You,” Paul replied, dumbly. He swallowed. “ _You_ , John, I just, I –“

“Yeah, I know, I miss you too, but we need to go now.” John’s voice sounded exasperated. Drained. The set they had performed wasn’t too tiring, though – lunchtimes were always nice, Paul thought. More relaxed, less high-tension.

It clicked, then.

John was exasperated with Paul.

He flinched at the thought, like a backhand to the head. It knocked him dizzy, and he sighed, letting his fingers fall numbly to his sides. John turned away, his leather clad silhouette hovering awkwardly in the doorway, head turning back slightly to look at Paul out of the corner of his eye when Paul spoke up, his voice strained and tearful, to his grave embarrassment. _Crying again, eh?_

“Right now…” Paul spoke, something in the emotion of the moment triggering a now distant memory of John, quoting John’s words, his nose fizzing uncomfortably as if another wave of tears were preparing to overwhelm his senses. “It’s still you – it’s still just _you_.”

The quote, or the feelings behind it, seemingly had no impact on John. Nothing, at all. As if any love, affection, lust, _anything_ he had felt for Paul had ceased to exist – gone, like someone had just… turned the big light off on him, leaving him in the dark, completely alone.

“Just kiss me,” Paul exclaimed, taking a brave step forward. He cringed at how desperate he sounded, but it was too true at this point. He needed _something,_ and John was having none of it.

“Not now, for fuck’s sake,” he growled. “Later, maybe,” and the door slammed shut behind him, a sudden _blow_ of finality.

Later ‘maybe’ never came around. That was weeks ago now, and they still kept their distance – no secret looks, no hopeful glances, no touches lingering suggestively longer than usual. Nothing.

By that point, it had just become a sort of … fact. John and Paul were still a unique, marginally complicated partnership, but it wasn’t to be acted upon, not anymore. Not unless John summoned him, which had only happened once in what, half a year now? _Christ,_ Paul thought, sighing loudly and taking a sip of his vodka and coke. _I need to get over it._

 _Getting over it_ was easier said than done, though. He found it increasingly difficult to see girls, what with Dot and so on so forth. He’d hurt Dot a few too many times, now, he knew, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. He couldn’t remember when he had become that sort of person – a person who disregarded his long-term girlfriend for a fling with his bandmate, who controlled her but let himself run free, who became a bossy, short-tempered, attention seeking _mess._ This wasn’t like the last time he and John had undergone a period of immense decline, he knew – ten months of no John pained Paul to think about, even now, but he’d had girls in between, he’d had writing and school and _life_ to get on with and it was so peaceful, then, but not now, not when he was placed just _slightly_ outside of the eye of the storm – too close to John to be within it, in the gentile and tranquil place he longed to be, but not enough out of range to be unscathed by the destruction the hurricane held.

He kept waiting for a time for them to come back to each other, waiting for something to… just happen, like it had last time. _It’s still you. It’s still just you._

It never happened. Everybody was getting on with their lives and there was little to no reason why Paul shouldn’t be as well, he guessed. Still. It clung at the back of his mind, always, always as much as John did, and he couldn’t let Dot down anymore. John couldn’t let _Cynthia_ down anymore, the amount of shit that woman puts up with from him.

Alas, this was their life now. Paul figured they were probably just over, officially, like, but – well, he couldn’t help but hope.

“Y’alright, Paul?”

A voice dragged him out of his subconscious musings, and his eyes snapped, wide and surprised, to George, sat opposite him, abandoning his conversation with John at last.

His heart ached a little – George looked so genuinely concerned for him, but how could he tell him anything? His life was one fucking enormous shitstorm and he’d almost had enough of it, _almost_ , but frankly he had too much hope left in him to have any thoughts quite that drastic.

And, _well_. He’d promised.

“Yeah,” he coughed, lifting himself up, standing above the other boys. “I’m going outside. Bit warm in here.”

He walked off without further ado, pushing past gaggles of girls and bands of boys and praying, _praying_ that he wouldn’t have to talk to anybody outside. He needed to be alone – he needed to cherish this night, before they’re whisked off to Germany again, before _Identity Crisis: The Sequel_ takes place.

He took a cigarette out of the packet as soon as his foot passed the threshold, lighting it smoothly and taking one long, deep inhale. He even held it in his throat for a few minutes, absorbing it, before he allowed the miniscule cloud of smoke to erupt from his lungs. It made his head spin ever so slightly, but in his current climate, it felt like ecstasy.

Paul found himself gazing off into space.

The moon was whole tonight.

It was a complete circle, a sphere in the skies, reflecting that soothing moonlight down upon that side of the world. It wasn’t like the harsh shining of the sun on a cloudless day; moonlight made everything look mystical – it’s soft and it’s smooth, like the glow surrounding the few remaining flickers of red heat being thrown off a settling fire on a hearth.

_The soft flames caused by a small wooden fire, burning and glowing and hypnotising._

Paul physically cringed at the memory of the way he had once described John’s eyes, flinching his eyes shut and shaking the thought away. _Even the fucking sky reminds me of him,_ he thought, sickened.

A cloud of smoke floated up towards the sky, blurring the view of the face of the pristine reflection.

Paul’s cheeks were cold, and he felt them start to turn marginally numb when he blinked a few times after opening his eyes. He couldn’t help but grin at the sight of the moon, though, despite his overbearingly dreary mood. _We’ll be seeing that exact moon in a whole different country come tomorrow night,_ he thought, grapping to shine a slightly more positive light on the whole affair. Paul felt the subdued thumping of baselines flowing out from the Casbah behind him. He breathed.

They’d finished their set earlier anyway, so he figured, there’s not much point in sticking around. John was enjoying his time with George and Pete, he said he’d be up at the crack of dawn to see Dot _and_ to travel to Hamburg with the guys, and he was tired.

He took one parting look at the front door to the club and, cig in hand, walked away.

 _God,_ he thought. _I’m getting too old for all this._

_***_

“What’re you doin’?” George cooed, craning his neck to get Paul’s attention. They were en-route to Hamburg now, and Paul sat with his head facing out of the train window beside him. George had somehow miraculously wound himself around Paul like his spine simply did not exist, looking at his older bandmate dead in the face.

“Wha’ – just looking out the window,” Paul responded defensively, gaze unwavering. He blinked a few times. The sky was completely white, nothing to be seen but fields of barely varying, dreary colours for miles and miles – they were surrounded by an eternity of agriculture, and if anything, it was just refreshing. Paul thought, _the countryside is nice. I’d like to live there someday._

“Right,” George nodded, unwinding himself from Paul. Paul could feel George’s discomfort next to him, could practically _hear_ his fingernails scraping against each other incessantly. Paul sighed and waited.

“D’you wanna play cards?” George muttered awkwardly. “Paul?”

“Not yet,” Paul responded, dismissing George with a curt wave of his slim, pale fingers. “Later. Ask Pete.”

“He’s writing a letter.”

“Wha – already?” Paul asked, frowning. He spun to look at George incredulously. George simply shrugged and pointed towards Pete, who could be seen in the opposite cubicle, writing furiously. “We’ve not even been gone a day."

“Aye, he misses his mam already, I rate,” George chuckled. “So, cards?”

Paul rolled his eyes dramatically. “I will on the ferry,” Paul promised.

Truth is, he still wasn’t quite ready to deal with all – all _this,_ the endless socialising and the bickering and the, well, the excitement. It was too much for him. As excited as he was to be back performing in Hamburg, back with the friends they had managed to make all those months ago, back with Astrid and Klaus and Jürgen and Horst and etcetera, etcetera, it just wasn’t the right time for Paul. George was simply quite happy to be able to go back to Hamburg as a legal adult, Pete was pleasantly surprised that Paul and he were not on _Germany’s Most Wanted_ after the fiery condom incident, John was just pissing _over the moon_ to be seeing Stuart again, and Paul lacked... well, everything. Their first trip to Hamburg was fuelled with this feeling of luminescent wonder, of a new era, of this sudden storm of change and adulthood and _freedom_ and, well, it so turned out that adulthood currently did not suit Paul if this is what it meant; sleepless nights, deportations, arguing with everyone, putting up with Stuart (although he realised that this was to be a less frequent occurrence than it was the months prior, thanks to Astrid – very conveniently – stealing him away from the group), nothing between him and John to look forward to. Loathe as he was to admit it, he was even beginning to think he may well end up missing Dot soon, the girlfriend he had so frequently isolated himself from over the last year having had enough of her, in the process of trying to get closer to John. He’d had enough of that and all, too.

Speaking of which –

“Where _is_ John?” Paul asked, frowning deeper, if it were at all possible.

George, again, shrugged. “Loo?”

“I swear he went like, fifteen minutes ago,” Paul rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat again. He was glad they had decided not to wear their leather gear on the way to Hamburg, as they had insisted on the first time – although they ditched that idea somewhere around Arnhem. He now sat, quite comfortably, in an old pair of ripped drainies and a t-shirt a few sizes too big for him. George wore nearly identical gear. John had bought new travel clothes, somehow, with the help and the persuasion of Mimi, undoubtedly, and though looking similar in style to the other boys, still appeared polished and dazzling and _fuck_ if it didn’t wind Paul up. Pete had a leather jacket on. Cool as ever.

“I mean, you can’t help it if you’ve gotta’ go…”

Paul shot George a stern glare.

George shut up immediately.

In another time, in another _life_ , Paul would have got up and sought John out himself.

Not anymore.

Didn’t have to, it turned out.

The sliding of the wooden cubicle door brought both Paul and George’s attention to the looming figure of John, his limbs rattling with the train, slumping and sitting opposite them, wearing a ridiculous, cheek-splitting grin, his chin and jaw line sticking out obnoxiously between his slightly curling sideboards and these days it just knocked Paul a little bit _sick_ , more than anything. How many worlds away they were, Paul wondered, from when being near each other would elicit goose bumps, when Paul couldn’t refrain from licking his lips at the mere sight of John.

No, not anymore – they were over, they had to be.

“Oh aye, where’ve you been then?” George inquired, pulling a disgruntled face at John, a face that satisfied Paul immensely. It looked as though, although George was actually oblivious, he was on Paul’s side, regardless. Good old, ever faithful George Harrison. _My best mate,_ Paul acknowledged, proudly, childishly. He felt the overwhelming, condescending need to pat George’s tall, brown quiff lovingly. He refrained.

“ _Thinking,_ George,” John replied, tapping the side of his aquiline nose in a secretive, patronising manner. “T’would not go amiss if you endeavoured to do so yourself on occasion, hm.”

“Yer’ a sod,” George coughed, lifting one long, skinny leg to lean on the seat opposite him and Paul, his foot right next to John’s thighs, the thighs that Paul had once kissed and cherished and stroked that now mostly just _offended_ him.

At this point, Paul was barely listening to what the two were talking about. He returned his stare to the fields and farmhouses and pylons that flashed by in a sort of disorienting whir, disappearing inevitably behind the windowpane. Paul counted the pylons as they flew by, thinking of songs, counting to the beat, _one-two-three, one-two-three, four-five-six._

Paul didn’t realise when the rhythm became _that_ song, though. When the objects flying past the window grew sparser, or resembled _that_ beat, when the huffs of the steam from the train or the wheels wobbled in time, as well, when all he could hear was that –

_dum, dum, dum, dum_

Fucking _stupid_

_dum-be-dooby-dum_

song

_come, come, come, come_

over

_come and go with me_

and over

_come home with me_

in his head

_be-beyond the sea_

on repea-

“Macca?”

He started at the sound of the nickname, a term he hadn’t heard in a long, long time now. John threw it into conversation occasionally, but never when they were alone, only if George or anybody was within listening vicinity, to throw them off the scent that something was wrong, probably.

He spun to look at John, who wore a faded blue t-shirt over his black jeans, who had a cigarette balanced perfectly between his lips, who’s eyebrows were bushy and curious and framed his dark, warm eyes from everything, from the cold that the rest of the world radiated, the eyes that were bearing straight into Paul.

Paul shivered against his own will.

_Fuck this._

“Yes?” Paul replied, coolly as he could.

“Do you remember?” John asked, looking genuinely curious.

The question triggered something in Paul, a memory that felt distant. _So many memories_ that Paul possessed – a bizarre, sadomasochistic part of himself hoped that John would pick one of _those_ memories. _Do you remember the morning we first kissed?_ Paul wondered. _Do you remember the second time? The first time you told me you loved me? All the times you told me you needed me? The last time you fucked me and apologised for leaving me on my own? Do you know that you’re doing it all over again?_

_Do you remember making me promise to stay with you?_

“Probably not,” Paul answered, swallowing a lump in his throat he didn’t know was there. _Fuck, I need a coffee,_ he considered.

John chuckled maliciously, a sight that unnerved Paul enormously. “I bet you do,” John encouraged, spinning too suddenly in his seat by the door and angling himself diagonally, nudging Paul’s thigh tauntingly with the tip of his shoe repeatedly. Dry dirt marked Paul’s jeans, a few specks of old mud falling to the seat between Paul and George. George shifted away, now tucking calmly into a scone his mother had packed for him, dirtying their compartment further. He sighed.

“I really don’t know what you mean,” He responded, exasperated.

“Do you remember that you left your suit case unlocked?” John continued, looking physically jittery and excitable.

“There’s a padlock on my case.”

“Aye, but did ya’ lock it?”

“Yes,” Paul was sure he had, he’d been so particular about it. They’d left the cases and amps and instruments in a free compartment, away from them all, he made _sure,_ he – the key was in his pocket, he could feel it now. So –

“Unfortunately, Paulie dear,” John cooed. _Paulie._ God. He definitely hadn’t heard that in a while. “Methinks you may be mistaken.”

Paul’s insides twisted uncomfortably. He _had_ locked his case. He couldn’t bear this any longer, he was _sure –_

“Fuck it,” he uttered in anger. “I’ll just go and check then, shall I?” He spat, evidently disturbed by the whole interaction, but he really couldn’t find it in himself to be amiable anymore. John was really _trying_ to grind his gears, had been for _weeks_ now, and it’d gone too far.

“Please, do,” John suggested, nodding his head like he was having some sort of seizure, _too_ enthusiastically.

Paul hauled himself up, patting his jeans down on his thighs as if _business_ was about to _go down,_ flung the compartment door open and took one, determined step out into the train’s hallway.

He stumbled instantly, slamming his fist into Pete’s compartment, watched as Pete literally _launched_ his pen upwards and out of the window in fear, staring at Paul wide-eyed and mouthing, “ _What_?”, shaking his curly head of hair in bewilderment.

It took Paul a second. He had to brace himself. He could feel the anger, the frustration, bubbling up in him already, turning the taste in his mouth sour and metallic. He bit his lip, closed his eyes, exhaled harshly out of his nose. He took a step back, stood in the middle of the train, listening to the wheels rattling and the carriages shaking.

He opened his eyes.

Clothes littered the empty carriage. Hanging from the windows of the compartments, sprawled over the floor, right up to the train-driver’s door, way back to the door leading to the second carriage. Underwear, t-shirts, leathers, shoes, even toiletries chucked here and there. All of his stuff, _all over the train_.

If he were a cartoon, there would be steam literally ploughing out of his ears, smogging up the vehicle. He grit his teeth harshly, spun around back to the compartment he had come from – he could hear John before he saw him – and _George,_ too, to his deep annoyance – howling in hysterics, punching the seats of the train, stomping one foot in a messy rhythm. He saw George covering his face in his hands and lying across the seats, his legs tucked up underneath him, slapping the walls of the train has the laughter choked him.

He was about to open the door (rip the door off its hinges, more like) when he saw John calm down very suddenly. He watched and lip-read John say something like, “Wait for it,” and then –

Pete come bounding out of his own isolated compartment. Paul felt one large hand gripping his shoulder like a vice, spinning him around, pinning him against the compartment door. He heard the laughter of John and George reaching a deafening crescendo. If he were a couple of years younger, he might just have cried.

For a second, he allowed Pete to scream at him in shock, although he couldn’t hear what he was saying because whatever it was made no sense to Paul whatsoever.

“Pete, get off me,” Paul said, calmly, looking up at his bandmate with sheer exhaustion.

“No – Paul, what the _fuck?! Why would you do this?_ Every _fucking_ time the band’s together you lot have got to ruin something for me – _every fucking time,”_ Pete was seething, literally, his face nothing short of bright, tomato-red. Paul gaped at him in confusion. “I lost my fucking _pen–“_

At this point, Paul simply rolled his eyes. He could see what was going on here.

He raised his hands and, with all the force he had, pressed them at full velocity into Pete’s chest, watched as he stumbled and wacked his back against the door to his compartment. Pete started up at him, more enraged than ever, eyes bloodshot from what Paul could only describe as surprise.

Pete had always been so quiet, it would have taken a lot for him to get this wound up – not just losing his pen, certainly…

Paul sighed.

“These clothes yours?” He asked, gesturing to their surroundings lazily.

“Of fucking course they are,” Pete spat. “You got them out of my _case,_ you filth–“

“I thought they were mine,” Paul interrupted, losing his patience rapidly. “John suggested that my case wasn’t locked so I came out to check and I just assumed all of this must have been mine,” he sighed, a hint of deep sadness behind the sound. He couldn’t quite see the funny side of it yet. “He’s played us both, mate.”

Pete blinked a few times. He genuinely looked as if he _was_ about to cry, break down and sob right there in front of Paul. Pete never did take well to these trips, Paul found. Missed his mum, like George had pointed out. Missed _Liverpool_ too much, too quickly. Paul suddenly felt deeply sorry for the guy.

Still.

“Start on me like that again and I’ll throttle ya’, you fuckin’ great big prick,” Paul announced. He spun on his heels, sliding open the compartment door finally. He looked at John and George for a moment. Both boys had resumed their original positions, John sat opposite George, George sat in the seat that had been next to Paul’s. Both had one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. George had one hand covering his mouth, unable to contain himself. His eyes stared straight through the floor.

John gazed straight at Paul, smiling. Fucking _smiling._

“All ship-shape on deck, Macca?” He asked, cocking his head slightly to the side.

“Aye,” Paul conceded, moving to sit next to George again. “Not for Pete though. You better go and help him.”

“You _what_?” John spat, bushy eyebrows furrowing so that his eyes were covered. George snorted into his palm.

“He was in a shite mood as it was,” Paul spat right back. He could feel his nose crinkling in anger, a face that screamed disgust. His voice rose a little. “There was no need for that at all, you absolute prize arsehole. Get out there and help him pick his shit up, will you, he just near crippled me.”

“You petty little queer,” John jeered. It should have stung. It didn’t, really, not anymore. “It was just a joke. It’s April Fools’, init?”

 Paul could barely hold it in; the laugh that bubbled inside him was relentless.

“It’s March 27th, you goon,” He howled between snorts, shaking his head. George had resorted to choked sounds, slapping his hand against the seat of the train again. “It ain’t even April yet, let alone _April Fools,”_ he laughed again. George put a hand on Paul’s knee and bent forward, unable to stay silent any longer. The train erupted with the sound of his unkempt laughter.

John’s cheeks turned a vibrant pink, a colour that satisfied Paul to no ends. Paul smiled, victorious. “Go explain your mistake to Pete, then. Gutted, he is. Chucked his pen out of the window in shock,” Paul explained, his voice haughty and a little posh at this point. George barked out another load of laughter.

John’s mouth hung ajar, gaping at the younger boy dumbly. _Justice,_ Paul thought. He smiled.

“F- what – fuckin, _fine_!” John exclaimed, sputtering a little. He stood up a little too quickly and yanked the door open, slamming it shut again with a loud bang.

Paul leaned back into his seat with ease. Looked out the window for a second, then sighed contently as silence re-encompassed him.

“Fancy a game of cards then, George?” He offered casually, as if nothing had happened since George had asked him to originally.

“Please,” George laughed again, wiping a few tears out of his eyes. “God, get me off this train.” He took a deck of cards from his jean pocket and moved over one seat, placing them in between the two.

Paul just laughed. It had always been like this, he thought. A constant power-play between him and John, both trying to get one up on each other. It hadn’t felt so satisfying back when they were lovers, Paul acknowledged, nowhere near. Back then it was intoxicating, a little sexy, now it was just downright fun. Winding John up, like he deserved to be.

Paul spun to face George properly now.

He could overhear John grumbling outside the compartment, the sound of his voice rising and falling as he stood up, then bent back down to pick up another garment of poor Pete’s clothes, then back up.

Paul grinned.

It was gonna’ be a _long_ journey, Paul knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shifts nervously*
> 
> Please let me know what you all thought, it really does help me so much! Both praise and criticism are completely welcomed.
> 
> Gentle reminder to hit me up on tumblr !!! distinguished-like.tumblr.com
> 
> (additionally: if you wanna talk to me or others about this fic (or come and go with me!!) please use the tag "come and go with me series" on tumblr, it'd be fab to see your thoughts and discussions and stuff about this!)
> 
> And thank you so much for your patience, from the bottom of my heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this whole chapter i feel like i’d completely forgotten how to write and how to spell and who the beatles even were lol it was such a challenge, but it was so fun in the end i finally feel like i’m back into the swing of things!! i’m still totally nervous about this INCREDIBLY DRAMATIC chapter but i hope y’all get into it anyways!!!!
> 
> as usual, please tell me what you thought! 
> 
> Also a MASSIVE THANK YOU TO @groovy-sweetheart (tumblr) who, even though we literally only spoke a few times, somehow helped me to motivate myself to finishing this - this is unbeta’d just because i wanted it to be up sooner rather than even later than it already is but for future reference if y’all ever need some healthy motivation or just conversation, she’s ur person.
> 
> (IMPORTANT: Trigger Warnings for: - sexual assault - self harm)
> 
> PS i haven’t studied German since i was like 14 so all the German included is from our old trusty friend google translate. if you see any mistakes please don’t hesitate to correct me and i’ll change it asap!

**April 15 th 1961 **

Hamburg always had a sort of desolate frost in the air, Paul thought, even in Spring. The breeze was bitter, a little saline, not all dissimilar to Liverpool but simultaneously, _worlds_ away from the place he’d called home.

The Top Ten Club’s attic was, at the very least, a mountainous improvement on the conditions of the year prior. The building was colourful, like the city, all pastel paints and striking panelling – though there was still the four of them (Paul, John, Pete and George) on the one floor, it seemed more commodious, more like home. Some parts of the attic were separated by streams of beads cascading down from doorframes. When the sun was setting, or rising, the plethora of light danced around the room in bijou, diamante reflections. It looked warm, congenial, homely, but Paul could scarcely remember a time before it had become known as their self-professed den of iniquity, and so he seldom took the time to appreciate the grizzly comparison to the state of the Bambi Kino.

It was 6PM when Paul lumbered out of bed and into the little kitchen area. The sun was just starting to set, although complete darkness wouldn’t come till quite a bit later. The whole attic was a soft, veiled, orange colour. On this occasion, the reflections from the shawls of beads did little more than agitate his delicate pupils.

The lot of them hadn’t made it to bed until 5AM, and they didn’t actually get to sleep till about 9AM. He seemed to remember taking a prelly, or two, but nothing he couldn’t handle, or so he had thought.

They were due back down in the club for their evening set in two hours’ time, but none of the others were anywhere to be seen; he had no real idea who had been the last to leave, or where to. He wondered briefly, dejectedly, why no one had thought to wake him up, but, _oh well._

Paul tugged on the sleeves of his blue jumper, pulling them down to cover his fists. It was a cold evening, he thought. Too cold to be walking around in his underwear and socks.

Too cold to have to work until 4AM tonight.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes, a yawn escaping his mouth and catching him off guard. He was in no way ready for the night(s) ahead, or the days, or the anything else, but he wasn’t much of a quitter. He did things well, he thought, and had a fairly good work ethic when you don’t take into account drinking and popping prellies on the job.

Upon opening his packet of cigarettes – that he had left, rather stupidly, on the kitchen countertop – he discovered, instead of the tobacco he craved, a napkin shoved inside. He gritted his teeth, taking a _very long second_ to control his temper, before removing the napkin and unfolding it, slowly.

Written in pink lipstick – previously belonging to his most recent shag, probably – was the scruffy calligraphy that was all too familiar.

 

_HOPE YOU DON’T MIND LOVER HA HA – J X_

He crumpled up the napkin and, perhaps a little too forcefully, pelted it straight into the pile of similar notes that Paul, Pete and George alike had assimilated from John over the last two weeks.

The most annoying thing was that it’s not even _funny._ It’s _annoying._ He’d stolen their cigarettes, he’d, countless times, taken Pete’s clothes, George’s _girls,_ disturbingly – leaving notes everywhere he went. And in such damn _patronising_ terms. “Lover”? _Really?_ If John was a different person, he wouldn’t have _dreamed_ of practically publicly calling someone (Paul, a _man)_ he used to shag, his “Lover”.

With a snarl, Paul wheeled around and forced his way through the veil of beads, getting a caught up in them on his way through the passage and flailing gracelessly like a fish on a hook, before finally freeing himself and kicking the doorframe. Gently, of course, which had something of an anticlimactic effect on his seething frustration.

As Paul went to throw himself down onto his bed, indignation surging through him, he heard the front door swing open and what sounded like a couple of sets of footsteps spilling into the attic. He sighed. Loudly.

“Paul?” Someone who sounded a lot like George hollered from the front room. Then, quieter, “Shall I wake him up?”

Paul, in all his supremely _adult_ wisdom, plunged onto his bed, pulled the quilts back over himself and shut his eyes, letting his mouth lull open somewhat unattractively. He didn’t really want to socialise, not quite yet, and it would be easy enough to shake the others off if he was literally unconscious.

“No,” A second voice, _John,_ replied. “I will – pass us that.”

Paul felt his entire body wince. He bit his lip, hard, and clenched his eyes closed. He felt his temperament waver, remembering the time he’d pretended to be asleep when John was lay there, leaning on his chest, watching him sleep, waiting for him to wake up. And they’d gone to the beach and they’d kissed and they’d howled happy, poetic, naïve _I love you_ ’s into the sea. His chest started to feel indescribably tight, laden. Heavy. Weighing him down into the mattress.

He heard John’s footsteps, soft and boisterous, until he could trace their location to next to his bed.

He heard John pull up a stool from by the windowsill, plonk himself down. Paul could envisage his thighs, thick and contained within his jeans, the pointed toes of his boots darting out in opposite directions, could imagine his hands draping idly off the curves of his knees. He heard some fumbling about, some rustling.

Then he felt a soft _something_ pressing against his bottom lip; he near jumped out of his skin, but the familiar rounded edges of a cigarette drew him in. He dared to open one sleep-ridden hazel eye, glancing at John in his peripheral vision. And John _smiled._ The _cheek of it._

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” he whispered, leaning over Paul with a lighter and, with no consent, lighting the cig that seemed to be flaccidly, depressively, creeping out between Paul’s lips.

Paul frowned deeply. “Afternoon,” he murmured, his tone screaming sheer confusion, finally taking a drag, letting his eyes close as John’s arm retreated. He raised his own arm to pull the cigarette from his lips and angled himself up a little with his elbows.

“Nice kip?” John asked, a chuckle present in his voice.

“Not the best,” Paul said, his eyebrows still drawn in a defensive, questioning glare. “Not the worst,” he acknowledged, tilting his head slightly. “What’s up with you?” He couldn’t keep the question out of his mouth. He simply couldn’t.

John shrugged and leaned back a little on the stool. “Sorry for nickin’ your last cigs,” he said. Paul took a moment to search John’s face for an apology for everything else he had done over the last few months, the last year, the last two years, and so on, so forth. What seemed like minutes passed in which Paul’s consciousness spiralled into resonant turmoil, his breath hitching involuntarily. John would do this, sometimes – it wasn’t all that strange, but it never failed to disorientate him regardless. This strange, enigmatic kindness. The intimacy. The love behind his eyes, softer and more alive, not an ounce of cruelty left in him. Flirting. _Sleeping beauty; Princess; Lover; I know._ No strings attached. Nothing that, really, could remotely _mean_ anything beyond mischievous word-play. A dance of language. A war.

Paul was pretty good at wars, though. Or battles, or whatever. These sorts – this incessant one-upping with this _stupid, goofy, selfish twat –_ frankly, were Paul’s specialty.

“So you should be, lover,” Paul quirked a sort of half-smirk, leaning back against the wall. Took a drag of his cigarette. Watched John’s mouth hang open for a moment, then snap shut.

“Get out of bed,” John mumbled, shaking his head a little before standing up. His hands found their way deep into his jean pockets, and he rocked back and forth on his heels a little. “George got you some coffee,” he declared and, swiftly as he had arrived, he left.

Paul smiled. An empty, sort of ironic smile, but a smile nonetheless. He heaved himself up and off the bed for the second time in thirty minutes, let out a bizarre concoction of contentedness and forlornness in a breezy exhale, and went about getting ready.

           

           

By the time that Paul had thrown on his clothes – his trousers, his shirt, his worn and threadbare purple jacket, his slightly matte black shoes that once had a dashing shine to them – and styled his hair a little, his coffee had turned a dejectedly cold temperature.

He sipped it and felt his mouth screw up in distaste, then took another sip anyway. God knows he needed it.

“What do you think,” George proposed, sitting on the tiny, lumpy armchair with one long, skinny leg over the other. He had a cigarette between two skeletal fingers, ash falling lazily to the floorboards. Paul had to fight not to passive aggressively throw an ashtray at his head. “Barney would reckon if we just, y’know. Called in sick?”

John barked out a laugh. He was stood, his hands still in his pockets, in the corner of the kitchen area, leaning on the counter (which, really, was just a high wooden table). “I don’t think we’d live to see tomorrow,” John admitted. “Quaint little idea though, our kid.”

Paul was at work rolling a cigarette, measuring the tobacco that George had given him up against the rizla, a filter nestled between his front teeth. He sat on the little breakfast table by the window, hunched over like a child at a school desk. They now all wore matching purple, equally as dishevelled as each other. John had his glasses on. _Buddy Holly._

“ _Normal_ people get to do it,” George grumbled, his face scrunched up as if he’d smelled something foul.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, mate,” Paul offered between his teeth. He took out the filter and spun around in his seat to look at George. “You’re a bit of an oddball at times but yer’ still fairly normal.”

George stared at him blankly. “Ha ha,” he replied, utterly monotonous.  

Paul smiled a large, condescending grin, and spun back around to tend to his rolly. 

A knock on the front door prompted George to yell a disgruntled, “ _Enter_!” before Astrid, Stuart, and Astrid’s friend, Brigitte, tumbled into the attic. The sun had set and the sky was a soft blue-grey, now. The attic lights were a little too bright and glaring, but the hue from outside the window was warm and inviting. You could hear the club downstairs getting louder, filling up, the streets outside becoming increasingly rowdy. Hamburg really was a nocturnal city, Paul thought. He liked it that way though – everything’s hazier at night time. A little easier to deal with.

“Greetings,” John sang. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

“Make yourselves at home, why don’t you,” Paul sniggered as Stuart strolled, all cocksure and suave, over to the countertop where John was stood and flung himself on top of it. John grinned, embarrassingly fondly, at Stuart. 

Astrid smiled, the most compact of movements, yet somehow so loving and gracious. Paul had always found her sort of gentle, a little ethereal, like something from a movie. She wore all black, and her expressions always appeared so controlled, so tame. “We’re watching you tonight,” she announced. Even her accent seemed innately _cool._ Every consonant had a slightly softer edge to it, compared to the way Paul and George and John and Pete and Stuart spoke. “I hope that is alright.”

“Ye don’t have to ask, Astrid,” George quipped, his once bitter face now a genuinely charming grin. “Yer always welcome. Du bist jederzeit willkommen.”

Astrid smiled, a little bashful. “Vielen Dank, George,” she chuckled. George looked _incredibly_ proud of himself, despite his accent sounding distinctly _not_ German.

“Figured we’d just head downstairs with you,” Stuart said. “Brigitte fancied the night out as well.”

“Yes,” Brigitte, a petite redhead interjected. She had a big, toothy smile and heavily freckled cheeks. She dressed like a Teddy girl. Cigarette pants rolled halfway up her calves, large leather jacket over a nice white blouse; black-rimmed glasses, bigger than John’s. She was charming. Paul liked her a lot. She reminded him, very distantly, of Dot. Bizarrely, it was that which made him feel like trying to pull her might not be _quite_ as bad as pulling someone who was more… not-Dot. _You’re a twat,_ a niggling voice in the back of his head heckled. He ignored it. “I have not had the chance to watch you all perform.”

Paul licked the rizla paper and began to flatten down the sides of his cigarette. John used to say cigarette rolling was a vastly under-appreciated art-form. Paul, undeniably, agreed. Once finished, he placed the cigarette between his lips to prevent it from tumbling off the uneven table, and smiled at Brigitte. “I didn’t think you had,” Paul confirmed, unnecessarily. “Coulda’ picked a pretty face like yours out of the crowd any night.”

Brigitte sighed and rolled her eyes. Astrid giggled. “Paul McCartney,” Brigitte laughed. “I appreciate your kindness. But please, as you would say, shut the fuck up.”

Paul laughed loudly – this had become a sort of inside-joke between Paul and Brigitte, now. Flirting every time they bumped into each other, Brigitte turning Paul down in no uncertain terms. He couldn’t even find it in him to feel deflated about it anymore. “Alright, okay, sorry,” he said, withdrawing. “Can’t knock me for tryin’.”

He stood up. “Can I bum your light, George?” He asked.

“Aye,” George responded, reaching into his pocket and chucking the lighter at Paul. Paul pocketed it for later and placed the cigarette securely behind his ear.

John coughed. “Shall we head down then? Pete’s been setting up by himself for the last half hour.”

While everyone began to filter out of the front door, Paul stopped briefly in front of the mirror on the wall by the arm chair and began flattening down the sides of his hair. “Giz’ a second,” he protested. The door swung only half-ajar. He was never _fully_ satisfied with his hair – it was at a funny length, his auntie would say; too long to be completely tame, too short to do much intricate styling with. The curls fell onto his forehead lazily. He grumbled to himself, unable to contain it.

He felt a large, warm hand on his arm and saw John beside him, just slightly behind him, in the mirror. His lips dangerously close to Paul’s neck, eyes bearing into Paul’s reflection. Externally, Paul smirked. Internally, he was screaming.

“Ye look gorgeous,” John muttered. Paul felt John’s breath against his ear. He shivered, and just about kept his composure to reply.

“I know,” he responded, quirking an eyebrow. He spun around to face John. They hadn’t been alone like this in a _long_ time – not since Paul had stopped him in the Cavern. The room felt static; a little toxic, but not in a bad way – more like the fizzing feeling you get when you’re drunk, as though you and the world are two very separate entities. Inter-dimensional.

John stood at more or less the same height as Paul, Paul being maybe a few millimetres taller. John had shaved that day, his face clear and tidy, his sideboards trickling down in front of his ears with cocky authority. His hair, to this day, remained neater than Paul’s, styled to perfection in a neat, auburn, wavy quiff. The two of them stared at each other square on; for a second, Paul felt as though they were legitimately squaring up to each other as if to brawl. He considered who should throw the first punch.

John had been acting distinctly bizarre today. It wasn’t often he made _this_ many potential advances in one week, let alone in the space of two hours. Paul, however, lacked the emotional capability to consider that this was anything _more_ than what any other advance could have been. So, fighting to keep himself from shaking with the tension of it all, Paul raised his arm slowly, testing to see if John would pull away. John’s eyes squinted slightly, his lips a little pursed, but he didn’t retreat. _Good start,_ he thought.

The point, of course, was to push John. Paul wins when John breaks the illusion. He should have wanted John to flinch away, divert the topic, reclaim control of the situation. Naturally, that wasn’t what he wanted at all. He wanted John to … _do_ something. Maybe kiss him, but not tenderly. Frankly, he wanted to be thrust against the nearest surface and fucked senseless.

But, _y’know._ Not a lot you can do, really.

Paul traced his fingers down John’s profile; along his hairline, down his sideboard, traced his jaw. He watched John lick his lips. That was a little too much for Paul, though, so he raised his eyes to stare into John’s instead. Brown. Warm. Autumnal. Staring right back into Paul’s, waiting for the next move.

There was no affection in John’s stare, though. Nothing that Paul could really work with. For some reason, that realisation broke the whole façade. Years of stress, of repression, of self-hatred, of _general_ hatred poured into him in waves. He wasn’t a machine. He couldn’t do this. It was fun, yes, but not healthy. Not good for either of them. A puzzle with a missing piece: it would lead, tumultuously, to nowhere.

Paul forced his eyes shut and sighed. He dropped his arm, withdrawing from combat, shook his head. “I can’t,” he announced. He wanted to punch himself for caving. “I can’t do this anymore,” he laughed, a ridiculous and incongruous sound. He stared at the floor, and turned away from John, towards the door – which had magically closed between the last time Paul had glanced towards it. A draft, maybe.

“Pau–” John began to say.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” Paul cut him off.

Paul didn’t know what it was about that situation that was too much for him – perhaps, simply, it was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Maybe it was the intimacy of the last few hours of Paul’s life, of John coming into his room, calling him Lover, telling him he was gorgeous. Touching his arm. Teasing him. And all for what? For some sort of self-satisfied game that John had come up with?

Alternatively, maybe it was John, in all his _incessant, beautiful_ glory, standing right in front of him; within reach, at last, but with no prospect of taking what he wanted. Taking what he used to have.

Maybe it was the sunset. And the bitterness in the air. And the weight – that _damn weight_ – laden on his chest, hollowing him out.

The sound of John’s voice, young and obnoxious, ringing, tauntingly, in his head. An echo of what used to be. The drizzle of waves hitting the shore. Seabirds singing a sorrowful hymn.

_"Stop ignoring me, you beautiful git!”_

Yeah. _That_ was it.

*** 

They were on their fifth break of the night when Brigitte sidled up to Paul at the bar.

“Are you alright?” She asked, genuinely inquisitive. Her voice seemed loud over the bustling reverberation of the music. “I loved the show.”

Paul nodded at the barman as he handed over his pint. “Yeah,” he said. He was a little tipsy, high on euphoria. He hadn’t quite reached the point of needing preludin yet – in fact, he wasn’t sure he’d need any at all. Waking up so late in the evening was definitely a contributing factor, followed by, maybe, a sense of power for calling John out for his behaviour. Well, sort of, anyway. He was having a good night, basically, which was a first, to say the least. He turned to smile congenially at Brigitte. “I’m pretty good,” he elaborated. “Are you? Do you want a drink?”

“That’s good,” she grinned. “You seem happy today. And no, thank you – I think I’m leaving soon.”

Paul frowned. Astrid and Stuart were still in the club, mingling, sat at a table with the others, now joined by Klaus and Jürgen. “Why so early?”

She blinked a few times and tilted her head, as if examining the question – or, more so, Paul himself. Paul frowned at her questioningly. He had one elbow on the bar, his fingers caressing his glass. Brigitte stood in front of him, arms behind her back, swaying slightly on the spot. She was pretty adorable.

“I’m going to a different bar,” she spoke, finally. “To meet my friend. It’s a very nice place, I think you might like it. Would you like to come? When you finish your show?”

Paul considered his options. If he downed a couple more pints in the next couple of hours, he’d be drunk enough that any club would seem like a good shout. If he stayed, he would probably go straight to bed, and repeat the same routine again when he woke up. He fancied a good night – he thought he probably deserved one. He can work on a little less sleep than usual. He glanced over at the table where his friends and bandmates were stood, laughing hysterically at something Klaus had said. “Are the others going as well?” He asked, and looked back at Brigitte.

“I doubt it somewhat,” she explained. “Astrid and Stuart will likely be going home. Klaus and Jürgen, maybe, though? They like this bar. You’re welcome to invite your friends, although I’m not sure it is their sort of place.”

Paul shrugged. “Where is it?”

“Nearby Herbertstraße,” Brigitte answered, confidently.

“Bloody hell,” Paul laughed. He’d ventured to Herberstraße a couple of times, back on their first stay in Hamburg. A cute little street, quaint and cobbled and well-lit, but littered with prostitutes in large windows, drunken, rowdy, horny men... _Oh well_. It could be fun. “Erm, yeah, I’ll come, if you want.”

Brigitte smirked, looking exuberantly smug, and disappeared into the crowd.

 

           

By the end of their set, Paul’s hair was soaked-through and his clothes needed wringing out for the amount of sweat they’d absorbed. John, George and Pete looked equally worse for wear. They stumbled out of the Top Ten Club, all of them, out onto the busy street. The sky was beginning to lighten up, an innocent, cloudy blue. The air was cold and refreshing. Paul took the opportunity to crane his neck back, take in the hues of the atmosphere surrounding him. Breathe in, out. Brigitte looped her arm through his and he looked down at her. She barely reached his shoulder.

“Are you still coming?” She asked. They started walking down the pavement a couple of paces behind the others. Paul watched George fling an arm over the lad from Rory Storm’s group and watched John punch Pete playfully (or not, you can never really tell) in the shoulder before hanging back to walk beside Stu and Astrid. They were going to grab some food, Paul had overheard.

John and Paul had barely said a word to each other all night – again, not a spectacular anomaly. It had been for the best, really – they might not have performed as exceptionally as they’d become used to, but it was nothing that the audience could fully observe. Paul was okay. It was all just _okay._

“Yeah,” Paul laughed, shaking his head and tugging her closer. “Why not, right?”

Brigitte giggled. “Right,” she mused. She pulled him down a side-road. “Come on; this way.”

 

 

Brigitte led the way down some stairs into the basement of a bar whose name Paul failed to catch the name of. The bouncers were _enormous._ By far, the largest security personnel he had ever witnessed. They towered over him by what seemed like ten foot. Brigitte greeted them in German, had a bit of a giggle (that, based on the look the bouncers gave him, was at Paul’s expense) and then squeezed past them.

Paul nodded amiably and followed her into near darkness.

The stairs were a little slippery, and the bannister he was gripping onto for dear life seemed doused in lubricant. Not the sort of club that cared much for health and safety regulations then, Paul clocked, but kept tiptoeing down the steep staircase anyway. The walls were red and a strange felt material – sort of suede. The light was dim, and Paul could smell the overwhelming stench of beer and the foggy aura of cigarette smoke. The door at the bottom of the staircase was matte black, scratches and dents in the metallic material, and locked.

Brigitte waited for Paul, a slightly intimidating grin on her face. She looked like an automaton; an artist of self-control. A con-woman. Paul flinched a little, the drunken haze he was in less than twenty minutes beforehand beginning to loosen its comforting grip on him. 

Brigitte faltered. She didn’t open the door, or make any move in any other direction. She frowned a little, sizing Paul up. Again. He shuddered.

“You are a lucky man,” she declared. Her eyebrows were light, but he could see them furrowing beneath her bouncy fringe anyway.

Paul scoffed. “What are you on about?”

“And I, a lucky woman,” she acknowledged, as if Paul had _any idea_ what she was trying to articulate to him.       

Paul just let out a laugh; it came out shaky and untamed, like a madman’s howl. He shook his head and scratched behind his ear. He liked Brigitte a lot. There was something extraordinarily flattering about her paying him any mind, letting him go with her to this mysterious place. “Brigitte, love, ave not the foggiest what you’re tryna’ say,” he fumbled over his words ineptly. Something clocked suddenly. “Klaus and Jürgen – are they not coming?”

“No, they changed their mind – they do like it here, though,” she noted. “And they’d never tell, I’m sure.”

Quite unexpectedly, Paul felt goosebumps on the back of his neck. He wanted to leave and be out of there as soon as possible. They were in a questionable area – he didn’t know Brigitte _that_ well, he was a bit of a hefty walk away from the safety of their attic atop the Top Ten; the anxiety was eating away at him from the inside out.

“Never tell _what,_ exactly?”

“I saw. Before,” she laughed, obviously feeling a little uncomfortable herself now. She looked at her shoes – tiny black dolly shoes. She was playing with her fingers, all shy and sweet but… just, _why?_ What _was_ all this?

Paul’s mind went blank, and then colour erupted behind his eyes. He forgot to breathe. His palms turned clammy, he bit down on his lip so hard he started to taste iron; he craned his neck back to look at the sky, as he had before, to see nothing but the black ceiling above him; he clenched his eyes shut, _tight,_ gripped his hair so hard it hurt. If this was a nightmare, he wanted out _now_. This wasn’t funny anymore. This wasn’t _good_.

 _"Fuck,”_ Paul gasped. It sounded like a sob, but he wasn’t crying. He didn’t really feel anything, yet. Or, rather, he felt everything. All at once. Cascading down onto him, that weight on his chest; that _fucking weight on his chest,_ after _all these years, now,_ catching up to him. “Fuck,” he repeated. “Fuck _, fuck_ –” he spun abruptly and booted the wall, not holding back this time. There was a dent in the skirting board. He repeated the action thrice. “Fucking, _fuck,”_ John was going to murder him. Their lives were literally over, if everyone knew, if _anyone_ knew. In the span of what could only have been five seconds, he considered what George would say; what John’s aunt Mimi would say; what his _dad_ would say. What his mother would have thought. What the talk of both Hamburg _and_ Liverpool would be. Would they get arrested, really? Was there any evidence, or just rumour? Were the _Polizei_ waiting behind this door, already?

It wasn’t enough – he raised his left hand, slammed it into the wall. Heard his knuckles crack in multiple places at once. _That’ll do._

“Nein – nein! Es geht ihm gut – es geht ihm gut, ehrlich! Gib – gib ihm ein paar Minuten! _Bitte!”_ A voice bellowed from next to him; he heard glass shattering all around him and then, of course, realised it was all in his head. He flexed his left hand, cringed in agony. _Shit_. Could he still play?

His ears were ringing; everything seemed inexplicable, in that moment. Where he was; who he was with; what had just _happened._ He breathed. Heavily, and slowly, caressing his hand tentatively. This wasn’t what he needed, or wanted, or had ever dreamed of. This was too much. 

“Brigitte,” he managed, finally coming to his senses – or something similar. Brigitte looked terrified and her eyes, big and brown, were filling rapidly with tears. Paul panicked. “Brigitte, what you saw – it was – I, John and I, we – we were just kids, you know? We, we haven’t been – we haven’t done – we’re not queer! Not me, or him, or anyone.  We’ve not…” he suspired. The words weren’t threading together convincingly; weren’t threading together at all. No one knew about them. Not anyone; it’d been _four years_. This _can’t be happening._ “Fuck it,” he sighed. He placed his head in his hands and leaned back, exhausted, against the wall behind him. He felt ludicrous, stood there in that hideous purple jacket that barely even fit him anymore, Vaseline in his hair – he still _looked_ like a damn child. Brigitte stared after him like a kicked puppy. A tear rolled down her cheek, magnifying individual freckles as it departed beneath the rim of her glasses. “Listen, okay? Stop crying, stop it,” his words were muffled by his hands. He dropped them to his sides languidly. Defeated. 

“Paul –”

“No, no – it’s okay,” Paul announced decisively. He nodded his head and leaned up, erect, strong, affirmative – shook his hands around a little. Brigitte took an alarmed step back, pinning herself against the wall. Like she was _scared_ of him. _And so it begins,_ Paul thought, terrified. “I’m s– I’m _sorry_ ,” he said. And he meant it. She didn’t deserve this, probably _. He_ was in the wrong. He was, intrinsically, quintessentially, biologically, _wrong._

“Paul, I–" 

“I should – go,” he said, nodding his head. “I’m gonna’ go.”

Brigitte gripped his arm before he could ascend the stairs. He looked at her for what seemed like an extraordinarily extensive amount of time. She was scanning him, completely and utterly. Paul was exponentially drained.

“I understand,” she said. The words went in and straight out of Paul’s ears.

“You can’t,” he laughed. He felt cold, and empty. Deprived. “You just – thank you, but no. You don’t." 

She nodded her head frantically; she looked hopeful, suddenly, as if she was getting through to him. What was coming next, Paul wondered? _You just need some help; it’s treatable, you know; you just need to find a nice woman._ None of that even mattered – he’d never looked at any man the way he had looked at John. The way he still, against his own will, looks at John.

But they were adults now. It was nice, at the time. Fun. Exhilarating. This was reality; this was the potentiality of police involvement, this was oppression. This wasn’t him and John alone in the Scottish Highlands shouting their love at the open, accepting horizon. Paul was lucky, yes – he was white. He wasn’t dirt poor. He was able-bodied, able-minded. He didn’t have to _live_ like a homo. He _could_ love girls. There _are_ ways around this – or there _were_. But now, _someone knew. “Fuck,”_ escaped his lips, again.

“Paul _, Paul_ – I’m like you, too.”

Paul blinked.

Brigitte nodded energetically. “Paul, I am the same – I, my…” She paused for a moment. “Uh… Freundin…” It was easy to forget that English wasn’t Brigitte’s native language, she usually spoke so eloquently. She was frowning, clearly very frustrated at herself. Paul focused on her face, accepting the silence gratefully. Her pouty, slightly chapped lips, her raised cheekbones.

Then her eyes snapped open. 

“ _Girlfriend!_ ” she shouted, and it reverberated around the stairwell. It was _far_ too loud for Paul’s comfort. His eyes shot open and he placed his hand over her mouth. She let out a muffled scream.

“Shut _up_ ,” he whispered. “You’re going to get us _both_ arrested.”

She frowned at him and shook her head desperately, yanked his hand away from her mouth with such force that Paul would never have estimated she possessed. She gazed at him incredulously, like he was stupid.

Then she laughed. She laughed hysterically.

“What?” He said. His nose started to fizz as if tears were preparing to bombard him. He fought it. “Brigitte, what is it?”

She muted herself and wiped one slender finger beneath her eye. “ _Ahhh_ – sorry, sorry. It’s just… Paul, have you never been here before?”

“No,” Paul answered. “No, never. Where _are_ we?”

Brigitte’s smile faltered marginally and she frowned deeply, shaking her head. “But…”

“But _what_?”

“Just… Joh– … uh, nevermind,” she shook her head again and spun away from him – Paul looked around, paranoid, swearing he could hear some commotion from above them. “Come on, then,” she instructed. She knocked on the door, a bizarre and elaborate beat. _Could write a song out of that_ , Paul thought, and then pushed that idea away instantaneously; he considered how much song writing he could actually accomplish from a prison cell; cringed as he heard somebody on the other side of the door fumbling around with locks and bolts, waited for the cry of _Halt! Polizei! Sie sind festgenommen!_ patiently, knowing he could never escape in time to save himself.

“ _Brigitte!_ ” A voice – a woman’s voice – screeched. A heavy object propelling towards Brigitte with immense force knocked her into the wall, and Paul stumbled away uselessly, stuck behind the door, unable to see what was going on. He was preparing to fight someone, to save the day, when he heard Brigitte’s familiar, calculated giggle. “Du haste so lange gebraucht, um hierher zu kommen! Ich war besorgt!”

“Ich bin jetzt hier, meine kleine Liebe – und ich habe etwas mitgebracht,” Brigitte responded. Paul didn’t comprehend a word. He stood, completely bewildered, behind the door, waiting to be revealed to the stranger.

“Paul,” Brigitte called. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Paul sighed and shook himself mentally. He should, really, be in bed by now. Nonetheless, he poked his head out from behind the door and smiled dumbly. The girls giggled at the sight of him. 

Stood beside Brigitte was a woman, considerably taller than Brigitte with dark, ebony skin and a head of frizzy curls pulled up into an unruly French twist. She wore a pretty lilac dress, down to her knees and a little bouffant, like back in the ‘50s. A trace of dark purple lipstic was present on her lips. She smiled at Paul, radiating kindness. Her arm was laced easily around Brigitte’s waist, pulling her close.

Oh.

 _Oh,_ right.

_Girlfriend._

Paul wasn’t quite certain how to feel about that.

This openness, this blatant… queerness. It was… foreign, to him. Completely. He was petrified.

Brigitte’s… _girlfriend_ … grinned widely at him, and he offered a shifty half-smile in return. “Hey, Paul,” she said politely, holding out her hand to him. “I’m Ayodele. It’s nice to meet you. Brige has told be a lot about you and your group.”

Paul chuckled airily. “That’s… nice,” he said. _Smooth._ He could see in their expressions that he must have looked scared shitless. Well, _he was._ He took her hand and shook it gently. “Nice to meet you too, Ayod–”

“Ayo’s fine,” Brigitte interfered. She had this smile on her face as she looked at Ayo, this sheer _fondness_ and _affection_ that Paul hadn’t seen on anybody’s face in what felt like years. He felt starved of it; living in some sort of famine.

“Yeah, Ayo works,” Ayo giggled. And then, as if they were alone, she _leaned down and kissed Brigitte’s cheek._ She just, _did it –_ and there was a miniscule trace of purple left on Brigitte’s pale face, rapturous and _there_ for all the world to see. And that was so beautiful; that was poetic, and graceful, and ethereal, and _everything_ that Paul needed to see; the weight crushing his ribcage eased off for the first time since he was fifteen years old – not even finished school yet, playing on an organ in a church in Woolton, Liverpool, as John Lennon leaned over his shoulder and spoke to him like they were equals, like they were stood on a pedestal much higher than what the rest of the world could reach.

But John wasn’t like that anymore. Not really. And in a lot of ways, neither was Paul. And yet, here he was anyway. And that’s fine, he’d decided. It had to be, because he was staring a fairy-tale right in the face. He was looking at two women loving each other, in a public place, the way John and Paul had once loved each other in private. Against his better judgement, perhaps, Paul McCartney smiled. And he meant it.

“Do you want to come in, then?” Ayo asked. Her accent was odd – a little bit German, but also not. She had something that made her seem a little more English about her, that Paul couldn’t really figure out.

“Erm,” he stumbled. “Y-yeah… Yeah, okay, sure.” Brigitte grinned ecstatically. He followed the two of them into the room.

He wasn’t really sure what he’d expected, but wherever he was seemed just… perfect, to him. The atmosphere was light and accepting, as if it wasn’t in a basement like a prison, or a hideout of sorts. It felt natural. People mobbed the dancefloor, and every one of them showed the same effervescent enthusiasm for the music as the next, despite the rising sun outside the building. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two tall men kissing tenderly. A little further away, two short, stocky women with short hair in an erotic, all consuming snog. The man behind the bar was an old guy with a bald head and a gruff, white beard. He stood, drying the inside of a pint glass, smiling out at the dancefloor like he was in heaven. Paul’s heart warmed, though he felt himself shiver in exuberance. Elation pulsed around him to the beat of the music, of rhythmic footsteps, of the hum of sweet whispers and crescendos of laughter. Sheer joy encompassed him, in that room.

He could have cried.

“Come on,” Brigitte called. He walked behind them willingly towards the bar, where the barman smiled, emulating mellowness, despite his intimidating exterior. He had a blue and red tattoo of an anchor on his forearm. A sailor, once, perhaps.

“Ahh, Ayo, ich sehe du hast deine verlorene Liebe gefunden!” He bellowed, his voice low and booming. Paul gaped at him in some sort of dumbstruck awe. He had never witnessed this, or anything like it, in his life. This utter liveliness; queers, everywhere, kissing and dancing and having a good time, of all ages, races, nationalities, professions. Maybe he _was_ dreaming, after all.

Ayo laughed from beside him and leaned on the bar. “Hi, Tony,” she said – Paul realised she was speaking in English for his benefit and he blushed slightly, a little humiliated. “Could we get three pints, please?" 

Tony just nodded and grinned at her. He smiled at Paul before turning to get them some clean glasses.

Paul spun around, truthfully not wanting to miss a second of what was taking place around him. He saw, on the small stage at the back of the room, a very tall woman in a feather boa and with an enormous beehive atop her head holding a microphone against her lips and snapping her fingers seductively; the crowd heckled her, in German, and she heckled back, laughter a permanent feature of her voice – her voice, that was lower than Paul’s.

He jumped a little at the realisation. That was a man… in girl’s clothes… talking as though he was a _woman_ …

“That’s Delia,” Brigitte said, thrusting a pint of beer into Paul’s apparently open hand. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”

Paul stared ahead, unable to form coherent sentences for a prolonged moment. “Uh.. she’s… a… he –”

“No,” Brigitte interjected immediately. Paul flinched. “She is a she.”

“But… he has–”

“A penis? Yes. She does,” Brigitte confirmed. “She has lived like this since she opened this place, way back in the ‘40s. She is definitely a she.”

“Okay,” Paul nodded, trying to process everything he was seeing. It wasn’t hard, really. Bizarrely, he didn’t feel all that out of place. It felt like he had come home.

The main floor of the tiny club looked similar to the staircase; red, suede walls and a dark brown, wooden dancefloor, with grey carpet beneath the tables, chairs and booths. The lights were feeble, the room nearly pitch black apart from the glow from the bar and the odd lamp. It reminded Paul a little of his local Labour club back in Allerton. He smiled, completely content. When he looked back down, his pint was empty, and Brigitte and Ayo had disappeared into the crowd.

“Hi,” a foreign voice called, suddenly, and Paul turned to see a man about his age smiling coyly at him. He was just a little taller than Paul; had mousy, wavy hair, long on the top and a little shorter on the sides. He wore a beige woollen jumper atop a white shirt; black pants; nice, polished shoes. Paul imagined, for a second, that he was a heterosexual woman, in a normal club. He imagined how he might feel if this man walked up to him and greeted him, instead of anyone else in the room. In the back of his mind, inescapably, he wondered how John would feel if he could see Paul now. 

Paul smiled at the man. “Hello,” he replied. 

The boy grinned, sort of cheekily. “Do you not like to dance, like your friends?”

Paul laughed and looked down at his shoes for a moment, bashful. _Bashful._ Paul McCartney blushing at the hands of a _man_ – something previously reserved for John alone. Perhaps, Paul thought, it was how natural it felt for this to be a romantic – or sexual – encounter in this specific setting. Perhaps this was a trick of his drunken mind. Perhaps.

He swallowed thickly and licked his lips. He could feel how pale his face was next to the pink hue of his cheeks and ears. Was aware how ridiculous he looked dressed in his show gear, his hair matted and unruly and curly and greasy. Meanwhile, his new acquaintance stood before him, dashing and chivalrous, strong and dominant. His knees were a little weak. _Oh,_ he thought. _This is what it feels like – to be normal, and to be flirted with by a stranger who simply took an interest in you. This is it._

“I do,” Paul affirmed. “I just – I’ve never been here before,” he admitted. The boy nodded his head.

“Would you like another drink?”

“Yes, please,” Paul admitted, and followed the stranger to the bar, his heart beating in his chest, and the image of John a diminutive silhouette in the back of his consciousness – controlled, where Paul wanted him to remain. 

A different barman served them this time. A more robotic man, possibly older than the last but colder and sterner. He gave Paul the fear, and when he gripped Paul by the chin, withholding his drink, and grumbled “ _I will see you later, yes?”_ when Peter went to the locker to get his cash, Paul pushed it to the back of his mind, but the cold aura he’d given off stuck with Paul all night.

 

 

“Ssso, Peter,” Paul slurred. “I h – hope you don’t mind me asking,” he’d downed his drink from Peter a little too quickly – the only explanation for his sudden bout of nausea – and was now struggling to string words into sentences, or even string syllables into words. Peter sat on a sofa, while Paul leaned over a table from a stool, opposite the other boy. Peter seemed completely sober. The music still pounded, the dozens and dozens and dozens of people still jived, the drinks kept on pouring. Peter sat back coolly, smiling at Paul so damn _tenderly._ Paul, naturally, was _basking_ in it. “Are you, y’know… a fag?”

Peter barked out a loud and mock-aggrieved laugh. Paul cursed himself. “Shit, sorry, am a shitebag,” he hiccoughed. “What I meant was… are you... do you… like men?”

“It’s alright,” Peter said. “You English and your blunt manner of speaking – it makes me laugh every time. _So_ charming,” he chuckled and leaned over, grazing over Paul’s cheek with the edge of his thumb playfully. Paul giggled. And hiccoughed. “Yes, I like men.”

Paul’s mouth formed a small and soundless ‘o’ shape. He considered this response. “So… like, _just_ blokes, then? Nothing … else?”

Peter laughed, again. “Yes. Just ‘ _blokes,’”_ he repeated, mimicking Paul’s accent poorly.

“o-right… okay…”

“Do you?” Peter asked, and Paul felt confronted for a moment, turned on the defensive, felt the anger surge through him like bile – and _then_ , he remembered where he was, and his mind cleared in sheer bliss.

“No,” Paul said anyway. Peter frowned. “Wait – I mean… Yes, but… not just men, I don’t think? I like girls too, ’m quite sure. And – and ave only ever liked _one_ man, so, do I even really – _like_ , men? I don’t know,” Paul sighed. “I don’t _know_ , Peter, man." 

Peter tilted his head carefully. “Well… do you like me?”

Paul stared at him, and felt his head start to ache a little with the concept that was being proposed. He imagined Peter in John’s place. He imagined telling Peter all the wishy-washy romantic garbage he’d spilled to John for the last four years, and for some reason, that didn’t bode well with Paul. Instead, he envisaged Peter kissing him, Peter fucking him. Paul fucking Peter. He felt a gentle burning in his groin.    

“Yes,” he blurted out decisively. Peter glowed triumphantly.

“Well, then, perhaps _you’re_ a fag, too,” Peter said, so matter-of-fact that Paul was nearly offended. Instead, he felt better for it. This was turning out to be a _weird_ night out. The weirdest, by far.

The song changed to an old familiar one – an Everly Brothers one. Paul wanted to sing along. Wanted to whip out his old guitar, sit opposite John and sing it, because this was one they’d never really given a go before. Paul made a mental note to learn the chords after tonight. The couples who once jived and flung each other around the room like acrobats found partners abruptly; the ones sat at tables, like Paul and Peter, smiled appreciatively.

“Paul,” Peter said.

“Hm?” Paul offered, raising his head very hurriedly, causing the room to spin relentlessly.

“Would you like to dance with me?”

Paul bit his lip, still a little ashamed of what was going on. He blushed. This would overwhelm him, he knew, but he had to do it. Had to try this, with someone who was so overtly not-John in every way, his entire essence. He nodded.

Peter led the way to the dancefloor and Paul shuffled awkwardly after him. When Peter spun to face Paul, Paul swallowed, as if he’d forgotten how to move, let alone how to dance. Or _speak_.

“Here,” Peter chuckled. He placed one of Paul’s hands on his shoulder, and grasped the other with his own free hand. Paul felt Peter tug him closer by his waist, then proceeded to stare at their hands, intertwined, shameless. He wondered if people were looking at him – he hoped they were. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to exist, like this. Normal. A part of this… community. 

The two swayed easily. Paul sang a little. More so to himself. With each word, came a deep sense of melancholia that he couldn’t quite battle off anymore. He was _losing consciousness_ , slowly and rapidly simultaneously. Out of _nowhere_.

“ _Our love will stand their test of time, And our ages won’t be there to draw the line…”_ he sang. He felt his eyes slipping closed as he danced. _This was nice. This was fine_.

“Paul, are you feeling unwell?” Peter whispered. He sounded bewildered – he shouldn’t be bewildered, Paul thought. This was _nice_. And _fine._ Where they were. The way the world was slipping away from him with such rapidity that he didn’t even want to slow it down, or resurface. If he thought really hard, it was as though he was dancing with John back at Forthlin Road, before Julia died, before they’d even thought about visiting Scotland or Hamburg. It was as though he was loved.

“ _I – know we’ll – love… again,” Paul! “Maybe t- to-morrow…”_

“Paul–!” 

Paul felt something grip him around the waist, snatching him from Peter, snatching the air out of his lungs. He heard a loud thump coming from below him. The world was still black. He heard Peter shout his name again – but it got drowned out by the music. He felt himself being thrust against a wall – he was slumping, but something was holding him up. Pinning him up. He wanted to sleep. He could just – so easily –

Drift away…      

_Be-beyond the sea…_

He found, suddenly, that he couldn’t breathe, and someone was pressing against his chest, rutting against his pelvis. He couldn’t see, or move. He couldn’t think.

_I need you, darling, so…_

“The fuck are you doing to him?!” A voice nearby screamed – Paul collapsed to the floor. He forced one eye open and watched the man who had served his drink earlier being dragged away – a curtain drooped closed over Paul, embellishing him in darkness. His legs felt cold – he felt the hairs snag against the crevices in wooden floor. He realised that his trousers were around his ankles. His jaw ached. His neck stung. His groin felt tender.

He closed his eyes again and breathed in through his nose.

Sang to himself.

_Yes, I need you; Yes, I really need you; please say you’ll never leave me…_

The black turned a little greyer; he heard fabric tearing violently.

“Paul, baby, I need you to stand up,” _he_ said. “Macca, come on, please,” _he_ said. A pause. He heard a woman’s voice – or a man’s voice – shout, “ _Raid,”_ into a microphone. “ _Shit_ – okay, we really – we really need to go – fuck, okay, come on, gorgeous, yer fine – yer okay –”

He felt himself hauled up against someone’s side; his pants were once again around his waist. He felt warm. He felt like he was flying. His feet tripping over each other.

He felt the cold air hit him in one fell attack; heard German voices yelling “ _Polizei – Halt!”,_ heard someone who sounded a little like Ayo sobbing not too far away. Brigitte encouraging her to _run_. Paul pressed his face into _his_ neck, taking a long and intoxicating breath… Heard someone who sounded an awful look like _him_ speaking down his ear… sounded an awful lot like…

John…

 _My Johnny_ …

Chanting to himself, and to Paul, and crying, and saying, “You’re a fuckin idiot, Paul,” as he huffed, out of breath, and saying, “You fuckin’ beautiful moron,” and, “I’ve got you, yer okay. I’ve got you. Shh. I know. _I know_.”

And all that was spinning around, a broken turntable, in Paul’s head, were his exact thoughts from outside Mendips, the last time he couldn’t articulate the words to speak to John – the mantra, the first prayer he’d ever cared for – _I love you, I love you. I fucking love you, Johnny – my Johnny, I love you… I love you…_

Eventually, the feeling of flying stopped and Paul felt himself being dropped onto a soft surface. Felt someone taking off his shoes, his trousers, unbuttoning his shirt. Felt gentle fingers smooth his hair back. Heard a voice, the most familiar voice of them all, faithful as ever, singing back to him.

Johnny _,_

_"I know…”_

My Johnny, 

_"We’ll love again…”_

I love you.

“ _Maybe tomorrow…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope that was okay!
> 
> Please leave comments for me, they really do make my day and they're my key source of motivation! Also questions and hopes for future chapters are ENTIRELY welcomed as well because i'm terrible at planning and rarely stick to my own ideas and concepts anyway.
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> Also the tags "come and go with me" or "come and go with me series" could be used if you ever just wanna talk about the whole series/this chapter/anything at all whatsoever.
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> Thanks for being so patient!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well well well i bet you didn’t think i’d be back this soon lmao
> 
> I felt like I needed to write this chapter really close to the last because i’ve tried something a little out of my comfort zone and i'm nervous about it lol - i’m sure you’ll pick up on it as you read it, but after this i swear chapter 4 will have moved on a little and contain some new plotlines etc
> 
> ANYWAY I HOPE YOU LIKE IT
> 
> (trigger warnings for, again: - sexual assault - violence) THANK YOU!
> 
> PS. all of my work is unbeta’d so if anybody wants to help me out on that front it’d be really appreciated, just throw me a message!

**April 15 th 1961**

It was early afternoon when John woke up that day.

George was shaking his shoulder, pestering him mercilessly. “John,” he kept whispering, his tone urgent. “ _John.”_

John glared up at the younger man, snarling a little. His throat was dry, clogged up, could still taste tobacco on the back of his tongue. He’d smoked a whole pack of cigarettes to himself last night, in a drunken stupor. He grit his teeth, his body distorted away from George, his neck twisted uncomfortably in his direction. He snatched the quilt higher, over his shoulder, clutching it. “ _What.”_ He hissed the word out through his teeth. It wasn’t a question, per se. He didn’t really want to know.

George was hovering over him like Mimi used to when he’d overslept. His mouth was ajar, looking a little dumb. He raised his eyebrows threateningly; “ _What.”_

George sighed and leaned down, closer. “You owe me a fiver,” he said. John groaned loudly and covered his eyes with his arms. “I need it now. I’m going shop.”

“You’re a fucking twat,” he complained. He wanted to smash something. He wanted to fucking _sleep._ “Can it wait?”

“No,” George affirmed, standing up straight now, his arms folded haughtily. “If you can’t pay it back then you shouldn’t hav–”

“Yeah, got it, cheers, Mimi,” John sighed. He heard his chest rattle in protest – didn’t stop him craving a fag. “You got any ciggies?” John inquired. His eyes were bleary; he was blind at the best of times, but with the added cluster of sleep in the corners of his lids, George stood above him, a skinny black orb.

“Rollies, yeah,” he answered. “Ye’ can roll yer own, though.”

John moaned, pettily, flailing his legs about like a child throwing a tantrum. He didn’t have the patience to roll. The end of the duvet fell off his legs and onto the floor. “Right,” he muttered. “I’m getting up.”

George looked taken aback. “You don’t have to get out of bed,” he said. “I just need a fiver.”

John rose from the comfort of his bed like a vampire out of a coffin. He looked at George, squinting harshly. “Got no fucking cash on me, have I?” He spat. George waited. “We’ll have to nab it off Barney out of me wages on the way out. I want scran anyroad.”

Through his tired eyes, John saw George’s teeth reveal themselves in an obnoxiously cheeky grin. He could picture his expression; eyebrows, dark and angled, raised, pointedly, halfway up his forehead. Hair like a turban, as always. His coat collar pulled up around his neck, thinking it looked cool. Arms still folded defensively, a tooth-pick cross.

“Aw, brunch with Johnny and Georgie, eh?” He joked.

John made a stupid face, pushing his tongue against his bottom lip and going cross-eyed, mocking George the only way he knew how. George shrugged at him, laughing lightly.

“Shut it,” John said. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pressed his feet against the floor, shivered at the cold. He looked at George for a long moment. “You staying to watch me get dressed and all?”

George rolled his eyes. “Aye, ye’ might do a runner, for all I know.”

John nodded, looking towards the window. “Oh, _aye,_ ” he imitated. “Let us just do a speedy sky dive out of a third-floor window. Always land on me feet, me, you know.”

George chuckled. “With any luck you’ll just splat against the pavement, like.”

“Good luck gettin’ your fiver then, smart-arse,” John replied. “Give us some privacy, will you? Pervert.”

George nodded. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He ducked through the veils of hideous beads that decorated the whole _fucking_ attic. John hated them. Such an eyesore, like they lived in the back of a fucking chippy. Or, worse yet, a Chinese.

John stood up and stretched, his arms craning behind his neck and toes wriggling. He felt every muscle in his body rejoice in the feeling, and a few joints clicked gratefully.

He spun to pull the thin curtains open, pools of gentle light already seeping through the material. He halted in his tracks, however, when a soft snore floated up from one of the beds behind him.

Paul lay on the bottom of the bunkbed he shared with Pete. John picked his glasses up off the windowsill – just to check if Paul was awake, of course – and popped them on the bridge of his nose, the world around immediately clearer.

The metal of the bunkbeds looked icy, like bars on a cell window; the walls, an off-shade of white, glowing a grey hue with the vague illumination of the light behind the frankly useless curtains. Clothes were thrown all over the room – not Pete’s, of course, which were all folded nicely at the foot of his top bunk, but more or less everyone else’s, scattered around like cheap decorations.

Paul was, indeed, asleep. He snored, his chest moving with surprising ease despite his nicotine habits of the past few years. He smoked more in Hamburg – they all did, really, George excluded.

His hair was still curled, although certain chunks had been flattened through restless stirring throughout the morning. He had one hand lying over his chest, the jumper that he’d elected to sleep in pulled up above his naval. John fought the smile creeping onto his face. It’d been crazy, those last few months; an endless spiral of maybes, definitely-nots, equally temperamental and unnerving. For John, just as much as for Paul, though undeniably for different reasons.

A simple fact of life, of his entire existence, was that John Lennon fancied himself a God.  Another fact that people, including John himself, would effortlessly fail to acknowledge, was that John Lennon actually fancied himself as very, very little. He _used_ and _abused,_ as Stuart had so kindly put it one early conversation, sat on the windowsill at Astrid’s house when they’d gotten settled in just after they’d arrived in Hamburg for the second time.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, you know,” John declared, looking at the tips of his fingers like they held the answers to all of his questions. “With him. With Paul. Am screwing him over. He _knows_ I am, as well.”

Stuart shrugged. He had a remarkable ability to make everything seem less important than what John saw it as; he built up his imagination, undoubtedly, in a sort of artist-to-artist way. But Stuart had a nack for grounding himself, in all situations, regardless of severity. Usually.

“You are,” Stuart acknowledged fairly. “You could just, y’know. Pack it in.”

“I can’t go back to how it was,” John admitted. His voice sounded choked and strained, and it startled him to hear it. “I can’t, Stu.”

Stuart looked at him, bewildered. His eyes were icy, but cool – refreshing. Not an everlasting forest like Paul’s, all browns and greens blended together in complex proportions. Stuart looked at John as though he was looking straight into his very being; it was frightening, sometimes. But necessary. Straight-forward and fundamentally _easy_. “It’s not that deep,” he said, decisively. John sighed. “I know you were closer before but, really, shit happens; Paul knows what you’re like. Even better than I do, sometimes, I think. He’s confused, yeah, but… not surprised, probably. If you really feel like you can’t go back to how it was, then that’s your prerogative, obviously. But also, if it’s getting you down this much then… maybe it’s just time to call it quits?”

“It’s not that simple,” John said, looking straight back at his friend, holding his gaze knowingly. He’d never admitted anything about him and Paul out loud to Stuart, wouldn’t do Paul that injustice. He knew Stuart knew _something,_ though, because he wasn’t an idiot. He might have been the smartest person John had ever met, and all be damned if John wasn’t going to talk to his best friend – the only one he really had left – about the thing that poisoned and festered in his brain almost permanently.

Stuart tutted. “You need to sort it out eventually, John. You can’t go on like this. Using, abusing, throwing him away and then calling him back. It’s not fair on either of you. Least of all Paul, frankly.”

John snarled despite himself. “Awfully fond of our Paulie all of a sudden, aren’t we? What, has the age-old rivalry come to a quaint little close? We all gonna’ hold hands and ride off into the sunset?”

A scoff, a shake of the head. “I don’t hate the guy,” he said. “You know that. He hates me and that’s fine – understandable, y’know. If I was that way inclined I’d be all jealous and entitled, too.”

The atmosphere took a very abrupt and jarring shift. “Don’t you fucking say shit like that,” John spat. Stuart rolled his eyes. “I mean it. Don’t.”

Stuart, of course, relented. “Right, sorry,” he said. “Anyway, besides the point, init? If you want to know the truth, I don’t really care much for… whatever it all is, or was, or whatever,” John had one eyebrow raised accusingly, waiting for Stuart to explain himself with the hint of a violent (but totally not, really) threat written all over his posture. Stuart held up a hand before John could intervene. “Let me finish, alright? All I know is that this negative tension… it _shows_. People notice. And that begs more questions than the ones that people ask when the two of you are all close and on good terms – which, by the way, are literally none. No one gives a flying fuck. You’re both stuck up your own arses.”

John blinked a few times, a little baffled. Stuart always spoke bluntly to him, that was nothing extraordinary; this was a whole new level of _serious,_ though. John was surprised Stuart had the balls.

The conversation came to an abrupt finish when John hopped off the windowsill and smacked Stuart upside the head. “Prick,” he said, walking away. Stuart had one leg hanging off the windowsill, sat beside the dozens of smiley faces that John had drawn on the condensed glass with his finger earlier, nothing but a blank expression on his face as he watched him leave, patiently. The faces were condescending, all of a sudden. Inherently sarcastic. John squinted at them, offended. Stuart laughed.

“Give Princess my love, won’t you?” He’d teased.

John had thought, _he’s not even privy to_ my _love, let alone yours,_ and slammed the door.

The thing is, it wasn’t enough for him to simply _pack it in._ If John was brutally honest, some twisted, downright evil part of himself liked to see Paul pining the way he had been, clearly upset by John’s all-around dickishness. But the feeling of pounding guilt still clung to him like an anchor, dragging him down at all times. The look on Paul’s face when John would give him hope, then snatch it away in a heartbeat, gave John very little satisfaction besides breaking his _own_ heart. Because he deserved it.

Paul, however, really did not. He’d noticed Paul losing his temper easier, ignoring John altogether, fighting back the only way he knew how – simply going along with it, like nothing was _really_ the matter. On the rare occasions that Paul called John out, John revelled in it. _Yes. Tell me I’m wrong. Hate me, spit at me, throttle me one if you must – just fucking make this easier for me. Please._

He missed it, too. The love, the feeling of having _a person_ who was yours equally as much as you were theirs. They were equals, in every sense of the word, and John had thrown off the balance of it all thanks to his own warped idea of self-righteousness, self- _discipline_.

He wasn’t willing to leave Paul alone. Every time him and Paul interacted – which, given the nature of their profession, was _a lot –_ John felt it, laden on his gut, like he was mourning something that wasn’t actually, technically, gone yet. Paul was still right there, within reach.

But so was prison. And so was the threat of being found out if they were still lovers or boyfriends – John had toyed with the word carefully in his head countless times, scribbled it out in poems, spoke to himself in the mirror, “ _Paul McCartney, my boyfriend,” “I am Paul McCartney’s boyfriend,”_ – or whatever.  And that would end their careers before they’d even gotten started, and it would destroy their relationship with all of the people they loved, or were friends with, or simply just knew.

So, John’s behaviour, really, was in-between the two polar options. Disregarding Paul entirely would never be an option, not for John, selfish as it was; continuing their relationship completely could destroy everything, for everyone, if it got out of hand, or if they got caught, or if they ended up having a nasty split in the end anyway. None of it was _fair._

John constantly fought the urge to kiss Paul, or hold his stupid hand, or climb onto his bunk in the night and just hold him. So what, he got a kick out of calling Paul beautiful every now and again, or calling him Princess, teasing him. The blush on Paul’s cheeks, the surprise in his eyes, was totally and completely worth it, and John thought, Paul probably _liked_ it. He was always a sucker for compliments and attention, as much as Paul would try to appear humble.

At that moment, John was fighting the temptation to move Paul’s matted hair off his face and plant a kiss between his eyebrows, though. And there was no kick to be had out of that but John’s own ridiculous admiration. This… _thing._

John grumbled in annoyance. He elected not to give in, again, because they were over, and that was that. That was final, as far as John was concerned and, hopefully by now, as far as Paul was concerned as well. They’d both settle down with pretty girls – John had Cyn, and that would be enough. Paul had Dot, and maybe, eventually, that would be enough for Paul too.

So John got dressed, had a quick wash, went about his life because it was all he could do. George was waiting for him in the living room, picking a bit of mould off a piece of bread to, assumedly, eat it.

“You’re filth,” John observed. “We’re going out for food now – just wait."

George looked a little bit ashamed of himself, flung the bread into the bin. “You took your sweet time.”

“Perfection _takes_ time,” John said. He walked over to the kitchen area to get some water before they left. As he was filling up the glass under the tap, he noticed a packet of Pall Mall cigarettes glaring at him prettily from the counter. He turned the tap off and went to examine them. He realised, of course, they must have been Paul’s – George only had baccie and Pete was meticulous about keeping his belongings out of the others’ reaches as much as humanly possible, especially after John’s stunt on the train. John sighed. “Sorry, Macca,” he said out loud. He opened the packet; there were two full ciggies and one half smoked one. He took them from the packet and put them into his old, empty one. George clocked what was going on and shook his head.

“If one of us did that to you, you’d kill us,” George said, a look of intense disapproval on his face. “Don’t be a dick, John.”

John laughed. It was true enough, but he was nothing if not consistent. This had become a running joke. He’d make it up, somehow, he always did in his own unique ways. “It’ll be fine,” John reassured. He leaned over to the other side of the kitchen and plucked a napkin from a box. Conveniently, beside it was a tube of fuschia lipstick; John picked it up and started to write.

He pondered for a moment what to say, what would make Paul tick when he found the note. He considered leaving it vague, just saying “SORRY” instead of playing this cruel, dangerous game that they had been. He couldn’t do that, though. Where was the thrill in it?

He settled on “lover” because it was ridiculous enough to not be true. It was ridiculous enough to seem like a play on the fact that the note was written in lipstick, and that’s all that Pete or George would think, too – or so John hoped. Also, it gave Paul enough hope to keep him on his toes, to trigger that blush, but not enough for it to overwhelm him. Yeah. _Lover_ would do.

He shoved the napkin into the packet, and walked out of the building, George following suit. 

That would have to be the last time, John acknowledged. Because like Stuart had said, it wasn’t fair; maybe it _was_ time to _pack it in._ He made a mental note to himself to _never do it again._ This was _it._ This was _final._

But when he went into the bedroom to wake Paul up later that evening, it felt natural to call him Sleeping Beauty, the way he used to. Made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge when Paul acknowledged the note that John had left him. Made his throat go dry, his heartbeat speed up painfully.

So when John spotted Paul, all clean and shiny and dressed up, playing with his hair, puckering his lips at himself, John, of course, could not help himself. He told Paul he was gorgeous, stood a millimetre away from him, their breath intermingling. Paul put his hand on John’s face, and John put his shield up, a futile attempt at pretending like this was _fine,_ and that John felt nothing at all. When Paul traced his fingers down John’s face, John was ready to surrender. To lean in and kiss him, there and then, to bring it all crashing down around them. He nearly told him he loved him when Paul stormed out of the room, flying down the attic stairs with such a force that John felt a shift in the air, distorted and wrong.

 _Well,_ he thought. _You got what you wanted, didn’t you, John?_

***

The first time John met Brigitte, he didn’t particularly trust her. She was over at Astrid’s place, sat awkwardly on the end of the bed, her feet not touching the floor. It was less than a week since they’d arrived in Hamburg, and the prospect of someone _new_ was instinctively off-putting to him. They’d done all this the previous year, introductions and establishing boundaries, and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to do it all again.

He’d seen her around before, of course, in clubs and lingering near Astrid, but he’d never really spoken to her. He’d seen Paul trying to flirt with her a few times. John always took offence when she turned him down, though. As far as John was concerned, Paul was mightily out of her league – he was out of _everyone’s_ league. And the cheek of her, turning someone like him away? Absolute _shite._

She was bold and giggly, infuriatingly friendly and downright _likeable._ John wasn’t too keen.

Sometimes Astrid would take them out to obscure, underground clubs, so when Brigitte said she was going to meet her friends somewhere, and Astrid said that she’d go to the chippy around the corner and wait, it seemed only natural for John to tag along. And when he realised it was a gay bar, he wasn’t all that surprised. _I mean_ , some people, even straight ones, like those sorts of scenes. He’d been to queer places before, for a pint (they were cheap, and John would never deny that queers do have pretty stellar music taste), but they were always outsiders, and they were usually quite conservative queer places, anyway. John knew there was something queer about himself – probably, really, always had. He’d fancied the pants off Shotton for the first few formative years of his teens, for crying out loud, had eyed up blokes on nights out (or even just on the streets) in certain, inviting glances – which they usually took the wrong (or right) way, and swung for him, at which point he always had to defend his honour as not-a-raging-poof. He knew it wasn’t something he could help, and he knew it wasn’t something that Paul particularly aligned to. For Paul, as far as John was aware, it had always _just been John,_ or so he had explained.

This place was a little different. It was full of blokes dressed as birds, birds who looked alarmingly like blokes. Couples snogging shamelessly. Even the bouncers seemed to share loving glances while they guarded the hidden kingdom. The whole place was overtly and dramatically _queer._

And John liked it. He couldn’t even pretend.

When a pretty black bird walked up to them and kissed Brigitte square on the lips, John almost laughed. He wasn’t drunk or anything, was hardly even all that surprised. It explained a lot. Why someone like Brigitte would reject someone like Paul. Why she always watched John from afar with calculated intelligence, like she _knew_ something about him. He’d have been offended if it had been someone else, but this girl, she knew what she was doing, knew who she was, and who she loved, and could apparently spot a queer from a mile off, for her to have brought John – who had always prided himself on appearing uber-masculine and a self-declared woman-magnet to the naked eye – to a place like this.

So, he memorised the special little knock that Brigitte had used on the front door for future reference, should he pop by any other time, because he’d be down for it, frankly. Cheap pints, decent music, and if he should find anyone who might fancy him, then, that’d be alright, too. Might take his mind off Paul. Even that, for just a couple of minutes, would be a utter and undeniable relief.

He did go back a few times. He had a laugh with the transvestites, told them all the times he’d walked out on-stage in a tutu and how it was sort of the same thing, just less polished. They laughed at him, and he appreciated that. He saw Brigitte there a few times, too, and they’d have a giggle and all. Ayo was nice, her girlfriend. Had a half-German, half-American accent, and that was pretty cool.

Brigitte seemed to know that John _really_ did not want this talking about in public, so they maintained their distance when the whole group was together, and Brigitte stopped looking at him funny from a safe distance too, like she’d found what she was looking for. Paul never clocked on, thankfully – John worried that Paul would kick up a fuss about it. _You’ll go to a bar for a fucking bunch of fags but you won’t kiss me in private anymore?_ What Paul didn’t realise was that John didn’t really mind getting found out _himself._ He was agile enough anyway – could run fast enough in the case of a police raid, was careful not to give out his name and to appear more placid than the real John, all loud and crude and shameless. Here he had to be subdued. No one knew who he was.

If he took Paul down with him, though, he wouldn’t forgive himself. So this was for the best. Definitely. It had to be.

***

John had been watching Paul like a hawk the whole night – if Paul noticed, he gave no indication to suggest so.

When they left the club, at first, he didn’t even notice Paul disappear with Brigitte; it was only when John was sat, picking chips out of Stuart’s paper, that Pete begged the question.

“I swear there were more of us,” he said, laughing a little, like he couldn’t actually tell who was missing.

“Where’s our Paul?” George asked, looking around like Paul was going to be hidden behind them somewhere. 

Last time John saw Paul he was walking behind them all with Brigitte by his side, chatting away happily. A chill ran through his body in shockwaves, and then Astrid spoke. She was sipping a coke, happily oblivious. Stuart was staring at John, concern plastered over his expression.

“Brigitte mentioned earlier that she was going to pick up her friend from somewhere,” she said. John closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose harshly. _Good God. Not Paul, too._ “I’m sure they’ll be joining us soon.”

John stood up abruptly, not even thinking about it. He plucked a large handful of greasy chips from Stu, prompting Stu to offer a disgruntled “ _Oi!”_ after him.

“Go home without me, yeah?” John called over his shoulder. “I’ll catch ye’s later.”

Stepping out into the early morning, freshly sobered up, was jarring. When they’d entered the chippy the sky was just getting light, still a sort of dark, navy blue – now, the clouds were parting to show a pale and hazy sky, the lights from the street having considerably less of an impact on illuminating the surroundings; one flickered in preparation for the light of daybreak. The air was cool and refreshing.

As he was walking, it came to John’s attention that he had no real idea of what useful purpose this would serve – going to interrupt Paul’s night out, where he would undoubtedly be awe-struck and excited and a little giddy with it all. He had been in a good mood that night – it showed, on stage, you see – and that would mostly eliminate the chances of him utilising a _flight_ response. Tonight, Paul would brave it, and probably have a good time. John slowed his long strides, considering heading back to the chippy. What would he even _do? Come on, Macca, this place isn’t for you, I’m the only queer you’re allowed to be around. Come on, Macca, let me tuck my arm around your waist and glare at everyone who will inevitably make a pass at you. Come on, Macca, knock me the fuck out for being an arsehole, let me ruin your night one more time, there’s a good lad._

The cons outnumbered the pros. Curiosity killed the cat, though, so John kept walking the familiar route towards the bar where Brigitte had first taken him all those nights ago. 

He spotted the two bouncers whose shoulders always grazed against each other’s, and walked towards them with confidence. He smiled.

“Hallo, Jungs; beschäftigte Nacht?” John asked, utilising a bit of German he’d picked up last year from the lads at the Kaiserkellar. The two men laughed at him. All in good humour, of course.

One said something in German that John couldn’t understand. “Sorry? Come again?”

The other one, marginally taller than the first, filled in the gaps in broken English. “He said, would you uh, wait, a moment? There is a situation.”

John squinted at them questioningly. “Wha situat–”

He heard a woman from down the staircase shout something, sounded a lot like _Girlfriend,_ followed by a familiar scouse accent whispering (though not quietly. Paul didn’t do _quiet_ very well, even when he tried), angrily, _Shut up._

John blinked. So, the flight response wasn’t on the agenda – the fight response, however, _that_ was still a possibility.

He blundered his way into the bouncers, trying valiantly to squeeze past their shoulders. In acute synchronisation, the two grabbed one of his arms each, and flung him carelessly into the street.

His arse collided with the concrete and his lower back throbbed in protest. That’d bruise. _Ouch._

“The fuck was that for?” He yelled, pushing himself up and surging towards them. “You fucking great big dickheads, that’s my bo–” he stopped for a moment. Thought about what he was about to say. Retracted. “Friend. That’s my _friend_ , down there. Let us through, will you?”

One of them looked over their shoulder, glaring down the staircase. John still heard voices. The bouncer shook his head. “Wait,” he ordered, crossing his arms. The other, who spoke a little more English, added, “It will not take long.”

John considered fighting, then let out a loud, long huff. Brigitte had probably told them to give her time while she eased Paul into things. Reasonably, honestly – Paul would probably need a bit of processing time; he always did. Bit slow, was Paul.

So John waited. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall for what seemed like hours, but really couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes or so. After a while, he heard the bouncers giggling quietly amongst themselves.

“What?” He snapped. He craned his neck up to look at the bouncers. “ _What?_ ”

They laughed for half a second longer. “Come,” one said, and stood aside from the door.

John nodded. “Thanks,” he said as he passed by. He threw himself down the staircase, nearly tripping over the steps, then knocked on the door.

Eventually, a stranger opened the door and smirked at him. John grinned back, undeniably awkward, and shuffled past.

He took a second, like he always did, to take in the surroundings. A drag queen was up on the small stage doing a surprisingly sexy cover of _Fever,_ gasping down a ciggie between lines. John allowed himself a moment to smile, then continued his pursuit for Paul.

He shut the door behind him, moved to the side, stood on his toes, tilting his head around.

It took a couple of minutes, and he received a few questioning glances, wary couples with suspicious eyes – totally understandable. John was a moderate stranger, eyeing up the whole club, his squint appearing, usually, judgemental. He’d be paranoid, too. 

He spotted the back of Paul’s head in the far corner of the room, slumped over, his head bobbing as he, probably, chatted away happily. John grinned. He was fine; having a good time, as suspected. He laughed and shook his head at himself. _No reason to be worried._ This was fine.

Paul was sat opposite a pretty looking lad who John had never seen before. He was dressed nice, kind of cute, a beige knitted jumper and a nice white collared shirt underneath. His hair was neat, like Klaus’. The undertone of jealousy surging through him was difficult to ignore; he fought it, anyway. Dragged himself over to the bar and smiled at the cheery barman. 

“Just you tonight, Tony, man?” John asked. He liked Tony. He was the sort of man you wanted to trust immediately.

“Yes,” he laughed. “Just me. Arnold’s wife is having her baby.” 

John hissed. “Shit. Guess we’ll be seeing less of him, then?”

Tony smiled sadly. “Yes, possibly,” he shrugged. “What can I get you, sir?”

“Just a half-pint for me,” John answered. “Cheers.”

When Tony handed him his drink, he gave him basically all of the money he had on him, let him keep the change, and turned around again. To make one thing clear – _he was not stalking Paul. He wasn’t._ He was just, you know, checking up on him. Being a good friend. He questioned why Brigitte had left him on his own; yes, Paul was an adult now, but he’d never been to a place like this before, never even been _close_. He reminded himself to mention it to Brigitte some time, chastise her for her carelessness. _Oh well._ He’s here now. It’s fine.

An Everly Brothers song came on and John smiled, an overwhelming sense of emotion teasing his senses. Paul loved the Everly Brothers – looked a bit like them and all. Could sing their songs, clear as day, never miss a note.

So, it was only natural when the lad Paul was with noticed Paul’s fondness for the song, and when John watched them both stand up and make their way – Paul walking unnaturally sluggishly – towards the dancefloor, amongst the other couples.

 _Couples._ Paul and this random weren’t a _couple,_ not by any means. They’d never have what Paul and John had, and Paul _had_ to know that. He _must_ know that, mustn’t he? Paul had been the one pining after John all this time, fighting to keep himself relevant in John’s life. Or was it the other way around? John couldn’t even tell anymore.

Stuart’s words rang in his head. _Call it quits. Pack it in. You’re both stuck up your own arse’s._

Paul’s words, all those months ago in the Cavern; John’s words, yellowing with age, spoken in a toilet at the Casbah. _Right now, it’s still you. It’s still_ just _you._

John shook himself, ever a man of action. He watched Paul dancing, laughed a little to himself. He’d request a song. A cheesy one, something they’d have to laugh at the next day. _Love Me Tender?_ No, too Stuart-esque. _Earth Angel?_ That could work. _I’m just a fool, a fool in love with you._ Maybe too intense for their first dance? John considered the look of sheer alarm on Paul’s face as John declared his love to him via Marvin Berry after all this time, and shook the idea to the back of his head. He heard the barman shout _last orders_ from behind him.

His eyes opened wide, the idea coming to him all at once. He let out a snort. _So darlin’, save the last dance for me._ Perfect. Just enough for it to be ridiculous, without it lessening the meaning.

He placed his glass back on the bar and darted off, limbs flying, through the crowd towards the stage. The drag queen from earlier was swaying easily, her microphone switched off.

“Eeyar, love, could I have a request?” John shouted.

She looked at him and smiled. “Of course you can, handsome man,” she laughed. John smiled. “What can I do for you?" 

“Um, can I get Save the Last Dance For Me? By The Drifters. Please, if you’ve got it.”

She chuckled and nodded. “Coming right up,” she smiled.

John sauntered back to the edge of the dancefloor, smiling radiantly. His walk had the hint of a swagger about it. He heard the opening chords and readied himself to find Paul, steal him from the stranger he was slow-dancing with moments ago.

John walked languidly, mentally preparing. Singing beneath his breath, “ _You can dance, every dance with the guy who gives you the eye and let him hold you tight…”_

He was close, now, to where Paul had been dancing. He couldn’t see him yet. He shivered in anticipation.

“ _You can smile, every smile for the man who held your hand ‘neath the pale moonlight…”_

John laughed, completely hyper; did a little skid in lieu of another step as he broke into song more passionately. “ _BUT DON’T FORGET WHO’S TAKING YOU HOME AND IN WHO’S ARMS YOU’RE GONNA BE…”_ he winked at a woman who clapped her hands at him, egging him on. “So darlin’, save the last dance f– _fuck!_ ”

John stumbled, nearly colliding at full velocity with the floor. He steadied himself on the shoulder of a stranger, spun around to see what had caused his trip.

On the floor, looking quite visibly shaken and rising, slowly, was Paul’s dancing partner. Paul was nowhere to be seen.

John spun frantically on the spot. _What had happened? What had he done?_

Failing to find Paul, John leaned down, gripping the stranger by the neck of his jumper, stretching it out. He heard the fabric strain. “ _Where is he?!”_ John shouted above the music. The boy looked petrified. He stuttered. “Are you fucking stupid? Where did he _go_?!”

The boy raised a tremulous hand, pointed an uneasy finger towards a double door by the side of the stage that was swinging as if someone had pushed it over with intense force.

John nodded and dropped the boy without a second thought.

He sprinted, catapulting over chairs, charging past happy dancers, not caring to look back. He pushed the door open, looked around the cold hallway. The walls were tiled, and the floor had no boards or carpet, just dusty concrete. He twisted his body around, unsure where to go. There was another door beside him, one which could only lead to the back of the stage. He couldn’t understand why Paul would be there. He heard a few grunts, though, that sounded as though they were coming from behind that wall. He grit his teeth and pushed it open.

The back of the stage was pitch black, with curtains intersecting and sheltering him from the view. He could definitely hear something; heavy breathing, what sounded like … whispers, or a gentle song, or something. He pushed his way through the shawls of fabric, at one point finding himself on the stage in front of everyone. He heard someone shout his name from the crowd – a woman. He ignored it and re-submerged himself in darkness.

“Paul?!” he shouted. A harsh grunt followed, so he sought after the sound. “Macca?!”

He heard a whisper. “ _Shhh.”_ That wasn’t Paul. John doubled his efforts, tearing down curtains from their poles as he went, kicking unused furniture out of his path. The music was still playing. John knew he was rabid, frantic, his breathing harsh, letting out occasional growls of worry, of frustration, of need.

He knew he was close when he heard Paul’s voice, soft and strained, rising beautifully, in all of the negativity, out from behind a curtain which seemed to be dancing of its own accord.

John hesitated, listening.

“ _I need you darling, so.. come go with m–”_  

John yanked the curtain open. A large man, easily twice John’s size, sheltered Paul away from him. John noticed he was hunched over, pressing into Paul. Paul’s head was lolling against his own shoulder, his mouth slack and open, his eyes half closed, fluttering.

Rage like no rage he had felt in his life boiled in his gut, his chest, his head. He felt sweat pooling into his fists, which he hadn’t realised were clenched. “The fuck are you doing to him?!” John screamed. He grabbed the stranger by the shoulders with all the strength he possessed – fuelled, probably, by pure adrenalin. The two men fell backwards, snagging the curtain with them. John flinched as he heard the loud echo of a body collapsing, and the curtain fell down, graceful in a juxtaposed way, over Paul’s limp body.

John had the man by the neck. He realised that they had fallen onto the main stage, and the screams that he was hearing were no longer in his own head – rather, they were coming from the crowd beneath him. He rolled over, straddling the flailing man, one leg over his protruding gut. He spat, willing it to be venomous. Plunged his fist down once, twice, against the stranger’s face. When he raised his fist a third time, he felt small hands holding him back.          

“John, John – _Paul_ – where is Paul?”

John nodded, rising with one final boot to the guy’s ribs. He ran back through the curtains, heard Brigitte and probably Ayo following him. He yanked the curtain off Paul for the last time.

“ _…ys, I need … y… yeah… really … you..”_

John kneeled and shook Paul’s shoulder, tried _too fucking hard_ to ignore the fact that Paul’s legs were bare against the floorboards. His voice came out shaky. “Paul, baby, I need you to stand up,” he pleaded. “Macca, come on, please,” he tried. A moment passed. He looked at Paul desperately. Although his eyes were slipping closed, his eyebrows were drawn in a confused looking frown. _He knows it’s me,_ John thought. _He knows my voice._

He felt Brigitte grab his shoulder, her fingers digging in like diminutive swords. She gasped, loudly, “ _Joh–”_ and then, clear as day, a barrage of voices, booted feet marching, a door bolting open, a crash as it fell to the floor. The voice of the drag queen, suddenly booming and low, a gruff and powerful announcement. The word _RAID_ engraved itself into the back of John’s head. His eyes flew open wide, and he turned back to Paul, shaking him, Paul’s forehead bumping against the wall. 

“ _Shit_  – okay, we really – we really need to go – fuck, okay,” he begged. Paul was heavy, undeniably, but John wrapped his arm under Paul’s shoulders and lifted him regardless. He spotted Brigitte, Ayo stood behind her, watching carefully, as she yanked Paul’s trousers back up around his waist. He nodded at her. Ayo took Paul’s other side, with John taking most of the weight. He felt Paul’s head slot into the crevice of his neck. “Come on, gorgeous,” he willed, dragging Paul and Ayo out through the back door, Brigitte leading the way. “Yer fine – yer okay –”

The whole run home, John found himself chanting uselessly, trying to ground himself, an attempt to keep him moving, keep Paul from dropping to the floor, keep them as far away from the police as he physically could. The sun was rising over the buildings, warm and inviting.

Paul was humming the Everly Brothers to himself, and John had to keep the tears locked in behind his eyelids. 

 _God, I love you, you fucking idiot,_ even his own thoughts sounding like sobs in his head. _I love you._

That morning, John watched Paul sleeping from his bunk for hours. He sang to himself, or to Paul, he wasn’t really sure. Somehow, George and Pete didn’t even stir. If they did, they made no acknowledgement of John and Paul’s arrival.

He watched – starstruck, _terrified_ – Paul’s bare chest rising and falling rhythmically, his eyes closed gently, his lips parted peacefully. He prayed Paul would forget all of this. He prayed this wouldn’t ruin him completely, prayed, come the afternoon when Paul would wake up, that he could take the younger boy in his arms and hold him and let there be no questions asked. He vowed, silently, to never fuck up like this again, no matter what obstacles they had to face.

John realised he was still singing to himself when he finally lay down and let his own eyes droop closed, anxiety stirring his gut like an engine ready to combust the whole morning. 

“ _Maybe tomorrow_ …”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, thoughts? Opinions? Anything at all is super appreciated!
> 
> I was sensing a lot of confusion and I thought the best way to explain John was to hear it from the horse's mouth - I realised I ran the risk of the chapter feeling too repetitive but I felt that it was at least somewhat necessary anyway, and I hope that's okay! If nothing else it was totally a challenge and I feel like that's benefitted me, personally.
> 
> Thank you for reading as per usual, and for all of your lovely and/or helpful comments for chapter 2!!


	4. Chapter 4

**May, 1961**

Paul loved sex.

He loved the feeling of sheer euphoria, of hearing someone cry out for him, the taste of sweat, saline and sweet, against someone’s lips. He loved the weight of thighs wrapped around his hips, of hair tickling his neck, teeth rubbing and nipping against his skin. It was bliss, and in Hamburg, there was a distinct abundance of it.

Sometimes, they’d have a few girls a night each. Especially during the first year, when it was all new to them – for George especially, _bless him._

Paul was pushed against the shelves in the empty larder, the girl who he was with – Mary or Mila or Marie or something – clinging to his shoulders for dear life as he thrust into her, sweat dripping from the two of them in pools. She was loud. He’d only met her that night, and she was willing, but by _God_ was she a screamer.

A couple of times, Paul laughed, completely out of breath, stopping his thrusts to hide his face against her shoulder. She gasped, flummoxed. “Are you okay?”

Paul giggled, unable to stop himself. “Yeah, just – quiet down a bit, yeah?”

She apologised. By the next thrust, a loud and obnoxious scream reverberated around the cupboard. Eventually, Paul gave up; it was nice, laughing, having a giggle _and_ getting an easy shag. By the time he came, he offered to finish her off too, but she declined.

“I will see you again, yes, Paul?” She asked, all hopeful. Paul smiled as he saw her out of the attic.

“Yeah, I’ll catch you later, M…”

“Matilda.”

Paul nodded. “Yeah, Matilda. ‘Till next time?”

He waved her off as she stumbled down the stairs, flattening her hair which had been reduced to knots, some blonde extensions falling out.

John turned the corner at the bottom of the staircase, stopping to watch Matilda depart, his head following her as she scooted past. Paul rolled his eyes.

Once the door had slammed shut, John looked up at Paul. The moonlight was the only thing illuminating the passage.

“Any good?” John asked.

Paul scoffed. “Not half bad,” he acknowledged, fairly. “Bit loud.”

John laughed wryly. “Says yourself.”

Paul cringed. “Shush,” he chastised. “Pete’s in.”

John stumbled up the stairs slowly, clearly drunk. In his post-orgasmic state, Paul had sobered up considerably since they had left the club; John stayed for a while, chatting happily with Stuart and such. When John reached Paul at the top of the stairs, his eyes struggling to settle, he leaned his palm against the wall. They were stood close, John’s arm brushing over Paul’s shoulder as hovered. Paul frowned, a little taken aback.

He waited for John to speak; when he did, he wished he hadn’t given him the chance.

“Are you okay?” He whispered, sounding gentle and kind; to Paul, it rang patronising.

Paul rolled his eyes to the back of his head, leaned back against the doorframe. He rooted around in his pockets for a cigarette and a lighter. Before he brought the filter to his lips, he replied, “I’m fine.”

John persisted. “Paul – _really_ , though. How are you doing?”

Paul growled. “ _Jesus_ , John,” he exclaimed, shaking his head, staring John down. He lit his cigarette, walked back into the living area. He heard John’s boots dragging against the skirting boards as he relied on the doorframe for support, filling Paul’s absence. “Will you let it alone?”

John rubbed his thumb against his lip, snarling. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

Paul took a long drag. He was facing away from John, in the middle of the room, looking out of the window. The atmosphere had a truly dark aroma to it; the moonlight was pretty, calming, so Paul basked in it. He didn’t want to be having this conversation. It had been what, two weeks? He’d been putting it off for this long. It didn’t need to be discussed. Not now. Not _ever._

“Not if I bump into him first,” Paul said, half-joking, trying to lighten the mood. John scoffed, fundamentally angry.

“He’s never getting near enough for you to be able to,” John vowed. “I mean it, I’ll fucking… I’ll have him. I’ll do time for it. I don’t care.”

“Will you fucking _shut up_?” Paul yelled in a strained whisper. He spun on his heels to glare at John. Smoke rose from the cigarette, the golden embers lighting up his face. John looked drained, but perhaps not quite as drained as Paul _felt_. “This is something that _happens,_ John, you’ve seen it countless times. Dodgy men harassing birds. How many times have you – _we_ – grabbed a lass in a club, eh, and got a slap for it? It’s nothing _new._ Just… let it go.”

The words left a void between the two of them that Paul was suddenly scared to delve into. He could see John processing it, the cogs in his mind whirring. Paul took a deep breath. _Suppose this is it, then._

John rose, all _body_ and broad, powerful shoulders. “The fuck are you trying to say? What, that it, just, doesn’t matter? That it’s a part of life? Paul, you were… you were fucking, _attacked_. What if I hadn’t _been_ there?”

“When have you ever fucking _been there?!”_ Paul spat. Yeah. This was _it._ The tumult of the last two years – it was all spilling out, partly against his own will. He felt the anguish burning against his chest, undeniable and overbearing. It had been there for a while, waiting to make an appearance – even before the incident at the club. John looked smaller all of a sudden. “You’ve been doing nowt but pissing about for the past few months,” he exclaimed. “Reigning me in then chuckin’ me back out again. Just because you fucking saved the day, knight in shining armour and all that _shit_ , doesn’t make you entitled all of a sudden. Just make up your mind or _fuck off_ , would you? I’m fine.”

John gaped at him, his eyes wide, his jaw slack. Paul brought the cigarette back to his lips, teased himself, then, all gruff and aggressive, flung it to the floor instead. He watched for a moment as a little black spot appeared on the floorboard – couldn’t find it in him to care. He folded his arms, his foot tapping restlessly. He still had his performing trousers pulled up around his hips, but his feet were bare against the floor. His shirt was on, unbuttoned entirely, his chest bare. He suddenly felt a little self-conscious, but pushed it away, electing, instead, to maintain his position. He wouldn’t let John have his way. Not this time.

“I’m… do you want me to fuck off?”

The words struck chords in Paul’s head, and he waited for a moment. He didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted some damn _peace._

“I think you’re fucking about. And if this is the way it’s always going to be then… yeah. Maybe it would be best if you did.” Paul was careful not to say _I want you to go,_ because he wasn’t satisfied that he did, truthfully.

John nodded his head, thoughtful. In the intensity of the moment, Paul failed to hear Pete shuffling around the bedroom; the tension between John and Paul was static, overwhelming, violent currents darting between them, amplifying the silence.

Pete shuffled awkwardly through the beads. Paul snapped his head up to look at him; John stayed staring at the floor, leaning on an armchair.

“I’m just…” Pete started. “I’m… gonna’ go for… a walk…” He raised one large, pale hand towards Paul. Paul just nodded. He couldn’t find it in him to be worried; Pete was innocent, wouldn’t cause any trouble, he’d probably barely heard anything anyway. Paul had to admit it was a bit of a relief to be alone; nothing holding them back, now. At last.

Paul thought about a lot of things in those brief moments of armistice. He thought about _that_ night. Honestly, it was all a bit of a petrifying blur. He remembered certain aspects – the barman as he grabbed him by the face, chatting with that handsome stranger; darkness, a little bit of pain, a subdued sense of fear that, at the time, he couldn’t even register as fear. John’s voice above the chaos, singing him to sleep, bringing him back to safety. It had taken him the whole of the following day, _days_ , to connect the dots, fill in the blanks. John had tried to bring it up, but Paul had shut off the topic immediately. He wasn’t ready to talk about it then; wasn’t, really, even now. It wasn’t something he ever thought could happen to someone like him; a strong, capable _man._ None of it made sense; it wasn’t something he could just work through with ease. It was simpler, ultimately, to not work through it at all. Take his time. Fill in the gaps as they came to him, naturally.

But if John wanted to have it out with him _now,_ then this would have to do.

John’s words came out of nowhere. Paul was still staring at the burnt wood of the floorboard where he had discarded his un-finished cigarette when the sound reached him, clear but foreign – hard to compute.

“I love you,” John said. Paul kept staring, didn’t react. He remembered John saying soothing, sweet nothings to him when he was incapacitated, so it didn’t feel quite that bizarre to hear again – not as magical as he’d expected it to. He could feel John becoming animated, rising up off the back of the armchair, taking a step, all cocksure, towards Paul. Paul rubbed his own arm with his hand, comfortingly. He averted his gaze, instead, to the dark hairs littering the limb.

“No, you don’t,” Paul rejected, not entirely convinced by his own statement. He heard John gasp, flabbergasted. He shook his head, ready to argue. “You don’t, John – but thank you, y’know. It was good, while it lasted.”

John’s laugh went through him like a knife – crazed, loud, powerful, hysteric. It was covered in falsity, sarcasm, and Paul sighed tiredly. “You have no fucking idea, do you?”

Paul looked up, finally, humouring John. “No idea about what?”

John shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “I _love_ you,” John repeated. “I’ve loved you since the fucking dawn of _time_. You’re _everything._ You’re my fucking… best mate, my muse, I just… you know what we do is dangerous! It’s _safer_ to call it quits, isn’t it?”

Paul snarled. “If it’s safer to call it quits, then call it quits. I’m tired of waiting. I could… be settling with Dot, y’know? Or someone else, a bird, or –”

“Or the other pretty boy from the club, aye?”

Paul frowned. “How long were you watching me for?”

John shrugged. “A while. Not long enough to stop you getting spiked, like, but a while.”

“Why?”

John moved away from Paul again, perched himself on the arm of the couch. He was trying to appear calm, casual, Paul had noticed; like this wasn’t as intense for him as it was for Paul.

“I’d been there before,” John finally admitted. “With Brigitte, y’know – I never had anybody or anythin’. It’s just… a nice place, isn’t it? You know. It felt safe, and fun. At those times, anyway.”

“ _Times?”_

John laughed. For the first time in what felt like a good while, John looked Paul in the face, and Paul didn’t cower away. John was smiling, but it was threadbare and splintered, like it didn’t belong. “What, you don’t think you’d have gone back as well? We’re queer as fucking daffodils, Paul. It felt _good_ , didn’t it? At first?”

Paul swallowed a lump he wasn’t aware had risen in his throat. He wasn’t entirely surprised, that John had been led away, just like Paul had. He wondered what Brigitte knew about John – seemingly, the only reason she had figured out Paul’s secret was because she’d been watching him and John _flirt,_ like the fucking children they were. It didn’t matter, really; he could ask her some time, probably, if he ever saw her again. He couldn’t find it in him to speak, so he just nodded. He liked the place. He would go back, one day, maybe.

“He was a barman,” Paul said, suddenly. He wanted answers. “Did you recognise him?”

John looked perplexed. “No,” he said. “Tony said it was just him on the bar that night – someone must have jumped over when no one was looking. He doesn’t work there.”

Paul nodded. “Right,” he relented. “Okay then.”

“He might already be locked up,” John suggested. “The raid, you know – I’d knocked him about good and proper. The cops might have got him while he was still down.”

Paul shook his head. He _hoped_ so. “It doesn’t matter – it’s done.”

“Paul… I mean it… Are you _alright_?”

Paul laughed. He moved, his limbs suddenly very numb, towards the table by the window. The room was still mostly in darkness; all he could see from there was John’s silhouette, and that made it easier, he decided – to not be looking him in the eye.

“I’m… yeah,” he said. “I’m alright, you know. It was – it was really shitty. I’ll probably be thinkin’ about it, at least every now and again, ‘till the day I kick the bucket. It was terrifying, but I can’t really…” he sighed, frustrated. “Honestly, I can’t remember most of it. I get like… glimpses into it, sometimes, but that’s it.” John looked at him expectantly. “You know, I’m… a reasonably grounded guy. I can see how it can ruin someone’s life, that sort of thing happening to you. I just… I don’t really feel anything. Not yet, at least. If ever.”

John blinked. “I’d be… I’d be going fucking crazy,” he said. He sounded dumbfounded, like Paul’s reaction was in some way _wrong,_ or inhuman. It felt like that, really. He felt almost guilty for not feeling anything – like he was doing an injustice to all the people whose lives it _had_ ruined. He remembered when his mum died – his reaction being, simply, _What are we going to do about money?_ – and shutting it all off because it was _so much easier._ He’d always had a sense of _carrying on_ about him; didn’t have time, really, to sit and sulk. He had places to go, songs to write, experiences to be had. He wondered, honestly, if anything would ever be enough to actually push him over the edge and into insanity. He’d been called heartless before, by girls, mostly. Cold, _calculated._ He knew John knew the _truth,_ though, and had been privy to the soul beneath the sociopath.

“Well, it didn’t happen to you, did it, so,” Paul responded. John nodded.

“That’s true,” he acknowledged. “Listen, Paul… I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Paul said. He was sat sideways on the chair, holding onto the back of it so tight he could feel splinters beginning to pierce his fingertips. John hadn’t moved an inch, really; he was still looking at Paul, licking his lips; Paul felt like something was about to _happen,_ but he wasn’t sure what. It was almost nice, talking like this – honest, plain and blunt, no requirements to be met. The game, Paul felt, had been paused for this moment. Maybe, even, for the last few weeks.

He heard John cough loudly. “Um…” he started. He had his hands buried in his hair, scratching his scalp for an unnecessarily long time, undoubtedly agitated. “I…” he sighed. “I can’t fuckin’ believe I’m saying this,” he laughed. Paul tilted his head at him, waiting, confused. John had always been a bit of an enigma, but this erratic behaviour was a whole new level, even for Paul.

Paul saw the shadow of John watching him intently. He waited.

“I… I surrender,” John said, a bit of a chuckle present in his tone. Paul frowned. “I fuckin’… I’m done, I can’t do it. I’ve tried, Macca, God knows I’ve tried,” he sighed. “But… I’m done. I was done with it all that night at the club – I was going to find you, y’know, steal you for the last dance… I requested the Drifters, which, in hindsight, might have been a bit much. But I was ready, then – I’d thought it over and, yeah. I literally just… I have _no idea_ what I was doing, Paul, and I’m so sorry – I’m genuinely _completely_ sorry.”

Paul blinked. “You fuckin’ _what_?”

Paul could have sworn he heard John gulp from across the room. “I’m sorry,” he reiterated. Paul blinked, again. “For, you know. Everything I did. Everything I’ve _ever_ done, really,” John paused. “You didn’t deserve it. And I’m sorry.”

Paul was dumbfounded. “Okay…”

“And I do love you,” John said. He stood up abruptly, throwing Paul off a little. “I always have, you daft sod. I’ve always been like this, I just… tried a bit harder to pack it in this time. I’m sorry. It was shite of me. Didn’t work, anyroad.”

Paul laughed, a memory resurfacing. John was still stood in the middle of the room, his hands nestled deep into his trouser pockets. Paul grazed the grains of the wooden table with his fingernail. “S’just a laugh, isn’t it?” He reflected. He looked up at John as the words came out of his mouth.

He was surprised when John looked down to his feet, clearly a little uncomfortable, or bashful, or _something._ Paul was all the more surprised when John picked up the quote where Paul had left off – “Oh, aye. _Everythin’ is.”_

Paul nodded. “ _An’ that’s fine_ ,” he finished.

John coughed out a laugh. “Still a bit more queer than Romeo and Juliet, don’t you think?”

Paul nodded half-heartedly. Suddenly, he felt a wave of sheer sorrow surging through his veins, sanguine and strong. His mouth turned dry. He didn’t want this to end. He wasn’t ready yet. He realised that if he wanted to, he could have John to himself again, that very night. They were alone. John was adamant that he still loved Paul; they were quoting their fuckin’ _first kiss_ , for fuck’s sake. It couldn’t get more idyllic than this, really.

Still. Paul wasn’t satisfied – the trust, the lust, wasn’t coming to him as easily as it used to.

“John,” Paul said.

“Yeah?”

“When you said… you’ve always been like this,” Paul thought aloud. “Our… that first kiss, we had, when we were kids – you said, you know, it was just once. One time, and then that’s it, forever – that’s what you said. Remember?”

John nodded. “Can’t exactly forget, can I?” He said. Paul was grateful that the atmosphere appeared to be lightening up; he could breathe easier, now. “Been trying to shake you off for fuckin’ ages, right from the get go. Didn’t you clock on?”

Paul chuckled. “Shut up,” he said. “Did you ever think, you know… it wasn’t your place to decide?”

John nodded. The moon had moved across the sky, and the light now settled over half of John’s face. “Yeah, but… no,” he argued. Paul frowned. “It… if one of us didn’t take a step back then… it would have just gone on for as long as it could do, and… that’s more dangerous, you know? The longer it went on, the more likely we were to get caught, so… I tried to avoid all that… a lot, although, yeah, in fairness, at pretty random intervals. I mean, still am doing really, aren’t I?”

Paul nodded. “Well, yes, but… you just… I mean, first of all, you could have gone about it _better,”_ he explained. “You were screwin’ with my mind. And also… you shoulda’ just said. We coulda’ talked through it, you know. Or something.”

“I know,” John said. Paul felt his heart twinge uncomfortably at the words. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah… well, again. It’s done now, isn’t it?” Paul asked. He wanted it to sound like a very _pointed_ question. He didn’t know if _he_ was done yet.

The void between them suddenly expanded, a supernova becoming a black hole. Paul considered whether or not they would ever talk about any of this again; if they’d really just pretend like nothing had ever happened after this night. No flirting, teasing, no running off to gay bars with Brigitte – just John and Paul, writing songs, the lads from Liverpool in their original, oblivious forms.

John didn’t say anything straight away, just stared at Paul. His mouth opened, then closed, at least three times. Paul waited, picked a bit of wood off the back of the chair impatiently.

In the end, John just nodded. “Aye,” he said, defeated. Paul, besides himself, felt his chest deflate against his own common sense. “Aye, yeah, it is.”

Paul nodded, an air of finality about it.

John sighed. “I’m gonna’ head to bed,” he declared. “Long night, you know.”

“Okay,” Paul said. “I’ll be in in a bit.”

“Cool,” John said. He hesitated a second before turning, immersing himself in darkness, heading towards the bedroom.

Paul felt this horrible, niggling sensation in his gut like he hadn’t said all that he actually _wanted_ to; he felt the pace of the beating in his chest escalate beyond its limit in a matter of milliseconds, his mouth, dry and dumb, opening and closing, trying to just say _something_ – _anything._

“John,” Paul snapped.

John stopped in the doorway, turned around to look at Paul once more. “Mhm?”

The words were propelled out between the two of them before Paul could think to retract them, to save himself. “I love you, too,” he said. “…I mean, yeah. I love you. Always will,” he chuckled airily, a dry and unnatural sound, waiting for John’s reaction, if there would be one. He wished he’d never said it, kept John on his toes a bit, but – there it was. Out there. Confusingly, Paul felt admittedly better for it, practically instantaneously.

Paul couldn’t see John’s face – but somehow, he knew he was smiling.

“I know,” John said, and disappeared behind the beads.

Paul swallowed, feeling lame all of a sudden. He realised he’d have to accept this as the tumult that he needed – that they both needed, probably, even if it didn’t go the way he would have wanted it to only a few months prior.

With a huff, he leaned to the floor and picked up the cigarette he had abandoned earlier; dusted it off with his fingers, re-lit it. For some reason, it felt indescribably better the second time around.

Despite himself, he smiled, inhaled – breathed.

***

Paul had to admit, things had gotten easier after that. The music flowed better, the conversation, the ability to _laugh,_ like they used to. In turn, the dynamic of the band itself had improved, as well – Paul found himself being able to tolerate everything considerably more, had even managed a few pleasantries with _Stuart_ , on-stage _and_ off.

He’d written to Dot a little, craving a taste of home. And Mike, and his dad – he wasn’t usually the sort for home-sickness, but he put it down to a side effect of _change,_ of him and John drawing a line under everything. Perhaps, too, he missed the innocence of how it had all been back there. There had been no dodgy men in Liverpool, spiking his drink, taking advantage; no doubts about the sturdy relationship that him and John had shared, either, but he was doing okay, as far as _okay_ went. His whole life had been put into perspective, and while he’d never be _thankful_ for all the shit he’d been put through, he was thankful for the comparative armistice that followed. He thought of the first world war, and playing footie on Christmas day, chuckled to himself at the extremity of the comparison.

They were due to play in about an hour, but they’d all headed down early anyway, to set up. They’d found themselves with little to do, just sat in the back room, talking. Paul had received a small package from Dot, with a letter attached – had opened it, started giving it a read.

George laughed. “Love letters, Paul?”

Paul nodded, frowning at Dot’s _overly_ neat writing style, held his breath at the slightly _too much_ perfume she’d obviously doused it in. He was sat on a table, his legs balanced on a chair. The others were littered around the room, only Stuart had nipped outside to get Astrid and Klaus. The fella’ from Rory Strom’s group had joined them, was filling in for Pete, who had committed himself to bedrest for _whatever_ reason. He went by Ringo. They’d had a good laugh about that last year.

Paul was leaning his elbows on his thighs, tilted his head towards George, who had been strumming his guitar mindlessly for the past fifteen minutes from his seat next to Ringo. John was sat on the floor, legs crossed, leaning against the wall opposite Paul. He’d found himself feeling increasingly grateful for his presence, the rekindling of their natural companionship. He felt calm, now, when John was in the room.

“Something like that,” he answered, eventually. He took out a heavier object from the brown envelope, turned it in his hands. A book. _Love Across the Ages._

“Christmas come early, then?” John chided from beneath him. “Go on, what’s she got you this time?”

Paul laughed. “Poems,” he said, flipping through the pages. “Fuckin’ poems.”

While George and John snorted to themselves hysterically, Ringo interjected. “C’mon, lads, she’s only bein’ nice,” he argued. “Oh, what it is to be _young_ and in _love._ ”

Paul chuckled, shaking his head, moving to put the book back into the envelope.

“Aw, no, Paul, come on – give us a reading,” John encouraged, tapping Paul’s ankle with the extended toe of his boot. Paul kicked him off, chuckling.

“I mean,” he started. “If you _insist,”_ he continued, opened the book to any old page. The poem was called _Silentium Amoris_ – ideally pretentious. He sat up straight, cleared his throat, shuffled about.

He rose the book, open, in front of his face, listened to the others chuckling amongst themselves.

 _"Shush,”_ he started. “Silence, please.”

“Sorry, sir,” George heckled. Paul darted a stern look in his direction, and began from the second stanza, his voice starting off articulate, pompous, his chest jutting out heartily.

 _“And as at dawn across the level mead_  
_On wings impetuous some wind will come,_  
_And with its too harsh kisses break the reed_  
_Which was its only instrument of song,_  
_So my too stormy passions work me wrong,_  
_And for excess of Love my Love is dumb…”_

At that moment, the door leading to the main room of the club swung open – a man, older than them, whom Paul recognised to be one of the jazz musicians who usually performed before them, had entered the room and had noticed the _reading_ that was taking place. Paul had to stifle a laugh, and instead regarded the man with some feigned level of distaste.

“Sorry,” the man muttered, shuffling awkwardly between the boys towards a saxophone in the corner of the room, holding a case in his hands. “Continue,” he whispered.

Paul nodded graciously, saw Ringo hiding his head in his hands in the corner of the room, only just managing to keep quiet. Paul continued, clearing his throat again.

 _“But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show_ _  
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;”_

Paul stopped, for a moment. He did enjoy poetry, to some extent; had read through John’s stuff when they were younger after encouraging him that it would work for songs, too. The words were, admittedly, tugging on his heart-strings a little. He coughed and lowered his volume, abandoned the ridiculous posh accent he had acquired for his own natural voice. He lowered the book back down into his lap, saw John staring at him more intently than he had anticipated. The gaze unsteadied him, somewhat, and he tried to remember that this was just a very elaborate _joke._

 _“Else it were better we should part, and go…”_ He coughed a little. He could hear George breathing harshly into his palm behind him, tried to ignore it. He raised his eyes to look at John, who was still looking at him, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. He blinked, shook his head, returned his eyes to the comfort of the pages.

The man with the sax had packed the instrument away, had made his way back over to the door and was shutting it agonisingly slowly, so as not to slam it.

 _“Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,_  
_And I to nurse the barren memory_  
_Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.”_

The door clicked closed; Paul looked at John, unable to help himself. John blinked up at him, looking a little bit gobsmacked, though Paul couldn’t fathom why. The poem was nice. He liked it, might come back to it someday, pensive and critical. Paul swallowed, not moving his gaze for a moment, and then, remembering the other boys were still in the room, he coughed, his voice becoming haughty and light again.

“ _J’ai fini_ ,” he announced, looking around expectantly. Ringo and George burst out laughing, slamming furniture with their hands. John did, too, much to Paul’s relief, and so there they were, laughing and giggling like the poem, at least to Paul and, perhaps, to John as well, held no existentialism behind it that he _didn’t feel ready to address_ , inwardly or otherwise, whatsoever.

“Who was that by, then?” Ringo asked, eventually, steadying himself with the armrests of the wooden stool.

Paul chuckled, wiping a tear from beneath one eye. “Uh,” he opened the page again. “Oscar Wilde?”

John snapped his head up suddenly, a half-grin taking precedence over his mouth. “The queer?”

Paul shrugged, tried to ignore the pointedness of the question. “Guess so,” he chuckled. George and Ringo burst out laughing once again, like that was the cherry on the cake, pushing them over the edge.

In that moment, Stuart threw the door open, marching in with Astrid and Klaus trailing behind him.

“ _Oh_ , he arrives,” John harassed, jumping up from the floor. Paul watched him dusting himself off, over-exaggerated, smiled fondly despite himself. “Thought we’d lost you and all.”

Stuart shook his head; Paul noticed that his smile looked a little sad, wondered when he would, finally, leave the group altogether – it was an inevitability, honestly. He wondered if John knew this, or if he was just choosing to ignore it, stubborn and hopeful. As much as Paul wouldn’t mind if Stuart left, so long as he didn’t have to take up _fucking bass_ , his heart ached a little for John. He wouldn’t take it too well, Paul foresaw.

Paul started putting the book and the letter back into the envelope, placed it on the table for him to pick up again later.

Astrid and Klaus had started chatting to George and Ringo, and Paul couldn’t help but wonder how Ringo’s drums would turn out – they’d not really done any practicing. Paul had heard him play with Rory Storm, of course; they were one of the biggest groups in Liverpool and, consequently, in Hamburg, as well. At some point, they’d started to look less like competition and more like friends, Ringo in particular. He was quiet, but then loud at just the right times, an air of cheekiness about him that reminded Paul a little bit of John, and a little bit of George, a happy median.

“Paul,” John called, stepping away from the other five. “I’m nippin’ to the bar. You comin’?”

Paul looked up, nodded his head; he could use a drink, really, would welcome it readily. “ _Yeah_ , go on then,” he said, groaning as he heaved himself off the table, started walking towards the door that John was holding open for him.

He ducked under John’s arm, led the way. When they reached it, John leaned over and hailed the barman. Paul watched them interact closely; watched the barman nod and get to making the drinks. It was unreasonable, he knew, logically; he knew this guy, he worked there near enough every night, like they did. Still, he couldn’t quite take his eyes off him, just in case. Everything was a _just in case,_ recently.

He felt John tap him on the arm, shook his head, looked at him. “Hm?” He offered, raising his eyebrows politely.

“It’s okay,” he whispered; Paul tried not to cringe at the fragility that John was treating him with, still a bit uncharacteristic of him. “We know him.”

Paul rolled his eyes, nodded. “I _know,”_ he said. “I’m not an amnesiac, John.”

John, thankfully, chuckled, backed off. “Alright,” he said, raising his hands defensively. “My apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Paul said. The barman returned with their drinks; John paid.

Paul nodded at him, took a sip of his pint. “I’ll buy you one later,” he said.

“Don’t be daft,” John reassured. “On me.”

Paul raised an eyebrow at him. John cocked one in return. “You trying to get in my knickers, Lennon?”

John just laughed, took a sip of his own. “If I was tryin’ to do that, I think I’d know how to go about it by now, don’t you?”

Paul shook his head, stifled a smile. “Piss off,” he managed. He took another gulp, turned to head back room where the others were.

Suddenly, he felt John’s hand grip his arm, some of the beer sloshing over the sides of the glass; Paul steadied himself, spun back around, eyes wide. “ _Jesus_ – be careful, will you?”

John stood closer, and Paul frowned up at him. “What?” He asked. John looked a little serious, all of a sudden. Paul felt some degree of anxiety stir in his gut.

“Astrid mentioned that Brigitte might be coming by later on,” he explained. “Just thought you should know.”

Paul nodded, still frowning, went to walk away again. “Right, thanks,” he said. John pulled him back again, and Paul grumbled, stomped his feet, glared at him. “What _now?”_

“Just…” John started, his voice low. “You know she feels guilty, right? Just, be easy on her. She’s freaked out. Ayo, too.”

Paul had struggled to avoid rolling his eyes. “I mean, I think if anyone has the right to be _freaked out,_ it’s me, don’t you?”

John shook his head. “Shut up, you know what I mean,” he continued. “I… I had a word with her, the other week, you know, about it all.”

Paul’s eyes opened wide despite himself, his mouth falling open. He leaned towards John’s face, careful to keep his voice down. “You didn’t start on her, did you?”

John took a step back, pulled a similar face at Paul to the one that Paul was pulling at him. “I mean, fucking obviously? She took you there and just, left you to it. She had a _certain_ amount to answer for.”

Paul shook his head. He could see John’s point, admittedly; he’d been a little annoyed about it all, and still was. All the things that would have made it different, that could have stopped it from happening, but didn’t, regardless. It was futile dwelling on it. He still liked Brigitte, but dread started to pool in his chest. “She’s gonna’ bring it up with me, isn’t she?”

John shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck. “Probably? She mentioned wanting to speak to you about it, apologise and that, but I told her it’s best not to – whether or not she does anyway, well,” he laughed a little. “’s not up to me.”

Paul groaned childishly. “ _Ugh_ – right, okay,” he sighed. He looked up at John. “Cheers for lettin’ me know, like.”

John’s hand fell from Paul’s arm, and Paul’s gaze followed it as it went. He missed contact. He wondered if he’d pull, tonight – an inevitability, usually, but he had to double check with _himself_ that it was okay, sometimes, make sure that he was in the right kind of mood.

They headed back to the room in silence; sometimes John did this thing, Paul had discovered early on, where he’d sort of guide him through spaces as they walked. When they trailed through the door to the back room, he felt John’s hand pressing gently against his back, navigating him. After a while, he found himself leaning into the touch; thinking about John’s eyes on him, alight and intrigued, as he read poetry; re-imagining John telling him he loved him, and all he could muster, the ever _grand_ and _elaborate_ thought process, was,

_Well._

_Shit._

_Here we go again._

***

Brigitte showed up in the middle of their set. They were doing _Roll Over Beethoven_ , meaning George was centre-stage, while him and John were doing their usual gig – _mach-_ ing _schau,_ so to speak. Paul really _liked_ playing with Ringo – as soon as he’d kicked into speed on _Lucille_ , Paul screeching into the microphone as he does, he had to take a second to lock eyes with John and George. Both of them were looking at him with an identical wide-eyed expression. It _worked. Worlds_ better than Pete, as much as Pete was a sound enough bloke. He made a mental note of it, then, to ask Ringo to play with them again some time, _soon,_ and _often,_ if only for a recreational jam.

John and Paul both leapt into the air, kicking their legs out and spinning their guitars around their torsos, in the midst of George’s solo; it was when he spun back to their microphone at the side of the stage that he clocked eyes with Brigitte in the crowd, missed his line for _groaning_ inwardly. John shot him a worried glance, and Paul shook his head, tilting it towards where Brigitte was stood. When their eyes met again at the microphone, John just nodded, seemingly understanding immediately. Paul had missed that – that damn near _telepathic_ connection they’d had.  

He took his mind away from Brigitte for as long as he could, considering whether or not he _actually_ had to speak to her. He didn’t _owe_ her anything; it was in the past, now, and it hadn’t been her fault in the first place, hadn’t been _anybody’s_ fault. Still, the dread tore away at his chest at having to talk about it, _again._ One time had felt too many, for Paul.

So when they finished their set for their last break of the night, Paul took his time putting his guitar down, took extra care when putting his jacket back on – which none of the others bothered to. John was waiting at the foot of the stage for him, looking at him with confusion, and a little bit of impatience.

Paul looked out into the crowd for a second – saw Brigitte talking to Astrid. He looked at John again, briefly, watched him raise his arms up and jut his chin out as if to say, silently, _“What?”_

Paul didn’t stay to reply – instead, he took deep breath, and sprinted to the other side of the stage where he swiftly jumped off, and darted through the crowd towards the gents’.

Once he was in there, he made his way to the back of the room, spun around on the spot, clasped his hands together at the back of his head and closed his eyes, stress overwhelming his senses. He didn’t want to _do it;_ he was _fine,_ and it was all _fine,_ and no one would fucking _leave him alone about it._

It had been barely seconds before the door swung open again and John marched in, pulling the exact same face he had been pulling when waiting for Paul to get off the stage. Paul shook his head at him, before he could start speaking, pointed towards the door.

“I’m not doing it,” he announced. “ _Don’t_ make me do it.”

John shook his head, confused, sputtered over his sentence. “I – you – no – no one’s makin’ you do anythin’, Macca,” he settled on, eventually.

Paul glared at him. “Brigitte,” he exclaimed, perhaps a little louder than he had meant to, because John took an alarmed step backwards. “She’s gonna’ fuckin – she’s gonna’ ask me shit about it, or give _her_ version of events, or _something,”_ he said, shaking his head, still, overtly aware of how _fucking crazy_ he must have looked, throwing a tantrum like that. John was looking at him with sad, pitying eyes, and it knocked Paul a bit sick. “Would you stop _fucking looking at me like that?”_ He spat, venom in his voice that he wasn’t even aware he could muster. He spun to face the wall behind him for a second, pressed his forehead against the tobacco machine. He felt a shoot of reminiscent pain in his knuckles, despite his injury from battering the wall at the club having entirely healed up. They’d gone for the drainies for that show, and Paul began to fervently regret it – could feel the sweat pooling outside of his every pore, worse than being on-stage, tenfold.

“I’m not lookin’ at you like anythin’,” John defended. Paul half-expected to feel John’s hands pulling him around to face him, was almost disappointed when they never came. “I think – I’m not sure, but – I think she just wants to say, you know, sorry, or something.”

Paul growled. “She’s got nothing to be sorry _for_ ,” he shouted, though his voice was muffled by the wall. “It’s _done,_ why will no one let me fuckin’ live it down?”

He heard John sigh from behind him, possibly a bit irritated by Paul’s behaviour, but Paul couldn’t be sure. It was _rare_ for Paul to be the one throwing a hissy fit, and for John to be on the receiving end; it threw their whole dynamic off its axis.

Just as John was about to speak, there were a series of knocks at the door. Paul spun around, suddenly, frantic; saw John rolling his eyes right to the back of his head, like _he’d_ had enough of it, too. Like it was _his_ problem.

“Don’t,” Paul said, his voice bold and guttural. “I mean it. Tell her to leave it, Johnny, please.”

John looked at him, completely lost. His hair was quaffed all neat, his leathers stretching prettily over his limbs – the look of pain on his face didn’t suit him, and Paul wanted to kiss it away – but didn’t. He bit his lip, shook his head – tried to imagine talking to Brigitte, almost decided it wouldn’t be _so bad,_ but somehow his own reaction had made it seem impossible, now, like he’d rather kick and shout and scream than speak to her.

In his sane mind, he knew he was being bang out of order – like when he’d battered Stuart on-stage, in a bizarre frenzy, the year before – like when he couldn’t stop himself from crying outside of Mendips the first time he realised he loved the living fucking daylights out of John Lennon – but it didn’t make it _go away._

There was a knock on the door, again. It _had_ to be Brigitte, no bloke would knock on the door to the gents’ public toilet. Paul felt agitation grip his every synapse.

“John,” he begged. “ _Tell_ her.”

John gaped at him. “I –” he started, then sighed, locking eyes with Paul for what seemed like too short a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Alright, okay.”

Paul watched him walk towards the door, roll his shoulder blades around in preparatory circles, then open it.

Paul folded his arms across his mid-section, slumped over like a child in hiding. John’s head was invisible behind the door – he had one hand on it, holding it half-closed, and one on the frame, cutting off Brigitte’s entrance.

He tried to listen in, couldn’t really hear much. He picked out, _it’s not a great time,_ and _seriously_ and _mate, I’m not fuckin’ around_ before a petite and familiar looking body darted out from underneath John’s arm, John stumbling a little with the force of her.

Paul just stared at Brigitte, when she stopped in the middle of the room, staring at him for a _ridiculously_ long time. To his surprise, she didn’t really have any sort of expression on her face – she just _looked_ at him. Paul felt naked.

“It’s really good to see you,” she said, eventually. Paul swallowed. He spared a glance towards John, who had started to walk slowly to stand next to Paul. Saw him mouth, _Sorry,_ towards him. Paul closed his eyes, tapped his foot restlessly.

“Brigitte, I –”

“You don’t have to,” Brigitte interjected. “I just want you to know – ”

“Ye’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for – ”

“It’s not that – ”

“I’m fine –”

“No, Paul, I – ”

“Will both of you’s fuckin’ pack it in?” John exclaimed, angrily. Paul’s eyes snapped open to look at him – he had his hands on his hips, glaring down at Brigitte, his lips pulled in tight and small. “Brigitte, he doesn’t want to _hear it_ , right?”

Brigitte glared back up at John, and Paul suddenly felt like a child stuck in the middle of a divorce. “I _just want both of you to know,”_ Brigitte said, pointedly. She looked back at Paul, her gaze a _lot_ softer. “Tony found the man – dealt with him. You will never see him again.”

Paul nodded. “Right, thanks.” He could feel John’s eyes on him, watching him carefully.

Brigitte looked at him, and Paul looked straight back at her, for _minutes._ At one point, the door opened, a bloke strolling in, innocently whistling a tune beneath his breath.

John snarled at him, told him to “ _Piss off,”_ which he did.

Eventually, Brigitte shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “That’s all. It’s – I’m just glad to see you.” She turned and started to walk away, slowly.

Paul looked to the ground for a moment, felt guilt gnawing at his insides before she’d even _left._ He looked at John for a second, and John pulled a tight smile before dropping his eyes to his feet, which were swinging and swiping against the floor, each in turn. Paul sighed, looked up.

“Brigitte,” he called, and she turned to look at him. “It’s okay,” he started, felt no better for it, but certainly no worse. “Thank you, y’know, for helpin’ John get me out. I’m fine. Everythin’s sorted,” he continued. She nodded at him, and he managed a smile. “And… it’s nice to see you, too.”

She smiled softly towards him, and yeah, okay, _that_ made him feel a little bit better. He heard John exhaling heavily in relief, could have laughed at the sound of it.

“I’ll see you outside,” she said. “You are all amazing.”

She turned, and left the two boys alone.

Immediately, the room seemed dimmer, less glaring. Both of them breathed out in unison, seemingly exhausted – in Paul’s case, definitely.

John looked at him, and Paul let out a breathless laugh, looked towards the floor. He leaned back against the wall, his hands at his sides.

John took a few steps towards him, and Paul felt warm, soft hands rubbing his upper arms. He looked up at John to see his eyes were level with Paul’s, burning golden browns, and his lips were brought up in the most tender of half-smiles. Paul felt a weight lift off his shoulders _, ridiculously._

When John leaned in and pressed his lips against Paul’s forehead, Paul could have cried. He didn’t, though, not quite – but he did look up at John when he pulled away, his mouth hanging a little bit open, utterly awestruck, suddenly. He swallowed a lump that had risen in his throat down – blinked a few times.

“We’re back on in five,” John said. “Take yer time though, yeah? We can give any old excuse.”

Paul nodded his head gratefully, but when John turned to leave him alone, his heart winced behind his ribcage.

“Johnny,” Paul said, his own voice startling him. He didn’t feel like he was going to cry, not really – just felt like he wasn’t ready to be alone, or be with anyone _else_ , yet.

“Mhm?” John offered, looking oblivious and innocent and for the first time in _months,_ Paul felt nothing but absolute warmth towards him – everything forgotten, suddenly, like the world had fallen into perspective.

But they’d drawn a line under it all. It’s _done._

Paul swallowed, again, shook his head. “Nevermind,” he said, his voice sounding a little bit stronger now. John nodded at him. “I’m coming.”

John just grinned. “Atta’ boy,” he said, and Paul nudged him in the ribs when he caught up to him. They walked through the door together. “Would have had to boot you out if you missed your queue, you know. That would have been a right old shame.”

Paul glared at him, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth anyway. “Not if I booted you out, first,” he retorted.

The sound of John’s laughter, piercing and nostalgic and _real,_ filled his ears when they re-entered the main room. He looked at their friends – George and Ringo grinning at them from the stage, familiar old Stuart in his shades with his legs crossed, saw Brigitte and Klaus and Astrid chatting amiably at a table, and he thought, _yeah, okay_ , _this is okay._

The rest of their set ran smoothly. Once they were done, they all went straight to their respective beds – and if when Paul lay down in his, clinging to the sheets like they were keeping him afloat, he tuned in specifically to the sound of John’s steady breathing from the bed next to him to send him off, well. That would have to be _okay_ , too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I'm super nervous about this??? i have no idea why??? but ANYWAY i hope it was okay! pls let me know what you thought!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh hi, I won't say much now other than I hope you all enjoy!!!

**June 18th 1961**

Paul was staring down at the table in front of him.

There, on a small plate, was a single cupcake with one matchstick poking out of the top of it, burning away, hints of ash falling onto the vanilla icing, an all-around depressing sight, but his heart warmed at the slight effort that had been made.

“ _Happy birthday to you…”_ the room sang, and Paul didn’t know where to look. George had been carrying the cake precariously in his hands, walking slowly over to the table by the window where Paul had been sat, waiting, pretending to have no idea what was actually going on around him – shot a look of surprise to everyone surrounding him, gasped, “ _for me?!”_ and earned a chorus of laughter.

They’d all made the effort, to his _real_ surprise. John, George, Pete, Ringo, Brigitte, Astrid, _Stuart,_ Klaus, and even Ayo had shown up, throwing him off guard a little. He noticed the foreign separatism between Ayo and Brigitte – where they would naturally have had their arms intertwined about their waists, they were stood a couple of feet apart, only shooting one another flippant, casual smiles and brief glances. His chest ached a little at the sight. 

 _“Happy birthday, dear Paul…”_ they continued, John adding a patronising _“Paulie”_ onto the end, and he laughed when he did. “ _Happy birthday to youuu!”_

He smiled, bashful, nodded his head at them all. “Do wishes even work when you blow out a matchstick, or is it exclusive to candles?”

“Just fuckin’ do it, will you?” George heckled, smiling that familiar broad, toothy grin. “We won’t do it again if you keep moanin’.”

Paul laughed, but didn’t make a wish. He lacked the time or energy to adequately make one up, though he’d be lying if he said that in the back of his mind, his consciousness wasn’t screaming _John John John John John John_ on repeat like a broken record.

When he blew it out, everyone applauded him, so he stood up, bowed in every direction, his hand folded formally over his abdomen.

“Anyone want a slice?” He offered, pointing at the cupcake that realistically wouldn’t even have taken up his entire palm. The room chuckled, everyone shaking their heads.

“I’ll have it,” George quipped. Paul caught John shooting him a look of sheer disdain. “If you’re not gonna’, like.”

Paul just laughed. “Go for it,” he conceded, stepping away from the table. “It’s all yours.”

“Cheers,” George mumbled, doing as he was told. 

“What’s the plan for tonight then, fellas?” Ringo asked. He was stood with his arms folded by the door, looking a bit out of place.

“We’re playin’ till four,” George managed through a mouthful of cupcake. “So, not much.”

“We can still have a good one,” John chipped in from the kitchen. “Drinks and prellies and that.”

Paul looked over at him, frowning. “I thought you were gonna’ come off the prellies?”

John tapped the side of his head. “It’s allowed today,” he sang. “It’s your _birthday_. We need to celebrate _properly.”_

“We’re no use to you sober and exhausted,” Pete pointed out, smiling widely. “We’re good friends, y’know.”

Paul scoffed, shook his head, despite the fact that he was genuinely grateful. He looked over at Brigitte and Ayo. “Are you two stayin’ as well?”

Ayo nodded. “If that’s okay!” She said, smiling enthusiastically. Paul got the feeling that, outside of _that_ club, she didn’t get out much.

“Ringo, aren’t you supposed to be on at the Kaiserkellar tonight?” George asked.

He shook his head. “M not even supposed to be here,” he answered. “We were only on a short-term arrangement. We’re off home soon.”

“Shall we start drinking now, then?” Stuart pressed, grinning a little behind his glasses. He had a headache, apparently, though Paul felt very little sympathy for him.

“Right on, baby!” John hollered, returning from the kitchen with a cigarette between his lips. “I’ve been gaspin’ for a drink all night.”

Paul laughed. “Yer an alcy, you,” he said, nudging him as he walked past. “Steady on.”

John winked at him, and Paul held his grin. “You love it,” John cackled. “Shall we depart?”

“Hear, hear,” Ringo cooed, made a beeline for the door.  The crowd filtered steadily out of the room, so Paul followed. Their kit was downstairs, waiting for them in the back room, and Paul felt genuinely _excited._ When the lot of them got together, in high spirits, with a bit of drink in them, they rarely failed to have a _good_ night. He wondered, fleetingly, if he should get reasonably paralytic, or just foggy. He wondered if he’d cop a shag, already had his come-ons ready. _It’s my birthday,_ he’d say. _Can I have a kiss?_

“Paul,” John called. He was at the bottom of the stairs, Paul at the top, behind George.

“Yeah?” He answered, smiling giddily, holding onto the bannister as he toppled down the steps towards John, who was now waiting in the corner as people pushed past him.

He was smiling up at him, a subdued element of pure joy on his face, radiating bizarre innocence, and Paul’s heartbeat sped up. “You’re buying first rounds,” he declared when Paul stopped at the bottom to talk to him.

“I hate you,” he laughed, and smacked John in the arm.

“Oh, and don’t I know it,” John sang, grinning wolfishly, and Paul had to stop himself from pulling him in closer, holding his hand as they left. 

 

            

Laughter thrummed all around him, and Paul felt suddenly overbearingly alive.

His head was just about bumping the ceiling with every move, his arm wrapped around John and Pete’s necks, his fists gripping onto their slightly damp shirts for dear _life._ George and Stuart had a hold of one of his legs respectively, and he felt Klaus behind him, preparing for his inevitable collapse.

John had made the executive decision to take a longer break than usual, something they’d _probably_ just about get away with.

It had been, apparently, _everyone’s_ decision but Paul’s to haul him up into the air, throwing him about like he was a ragdoll whilst chanting happy birthday at him again. Paul was laughing heartily, though, giggling uncontrollably, a night’s worth of beer warm in his gut, the taste of tobacco sharp at the back of his throat. George had given him a packet of cigs, for free, and he hadn’t hesitated to smoke the packet near-dry.

Astrid had her camera at the ready, and he could see her smile poking out from beneath the frame. Brigitte and Ayo were on either side of her, grinning madly – Brigitte had a bad case of the giggles, and Paul noticed they were getting lazier about keeping their guard up, Ayo rubbing her back, trying to calm her down (to little avail). He wondered if he’d get away with it, too, somewhere like this – if he could afford to look at John the way they dared to look at each other, or dance his hand over John’s chest as he sang.

As if testing himself, he loosened his grip on John’s chest, putting more pressure on Pete instead. He was still looking over at Astrid, though, smiling in preparation for her to take the shot. He slid his hand up over John’s shoulder, slowly, his fingers tracing the curves of his shoulder blades when he reached his back. He thought he heard John gasp, but couldn’t be too sure over the noise. He pressed on, bringing his palm to the back of John’s neck. Curled his fingers into the bottom of John’s hair, massaged his scalp softly, pulses running up his arm.

He risked a look down to see John looking back up at him, and he could have sworn he felt his heart stop. His eyes were wide, a little prevalent, but his mouth was hanging half-open in a lacklustre smile, dishevelled and charming. Paul almost cowered away, but the alcohol drumming noisily through his veins got the better at him – the world felt further away, and for the briefest of moments, he felt the last few months of his life slip away, too.

He considered where they’d be by now if life had continued how it had been going before their relationship had come to an unsteady and abrupt end. He considered whether they’d have as much sex as they were having – perhaps not, due to the circumstances in Hamburg, but he revelled in the thought of them slipping away into cupboards, cubicles, hushed breaths and muffled moans on Paul’s mattress when the others were passed out drunk. He considered if they’d take days just for _them,_ impromptu journeys down the river, days down in the closed bar with their guitars, writing the way they used to back home. He toyed with the idea of dates with Ayo and Brigitte, John taking him to their club instead of Brigitte, dancing like they were normal.

His breath caught in his throat, and it was at that moment that it dawned upon him that he couldn’t only not help being in love with John Lennon. He _wanted_ to be.

He smiled down at John, and John’s expression softened a little. Paul felt John’s hand tighten slightly on the underside of his thigh, and his head spun with the euphoria of it.

“Paul!” Astrid called, and he snapped his head up at her, looking admittedly gormless and confused. She was laughing at him, shaking her head. “Smile at _me_!”

He grinned toothily, grazed his thumb across John’s neck, felt John lean into it as if he was wired to do so.

Astrid took the picture, the light from the flash of the little polaroid encompassing them, and then he was being dropped back down to the floor, everyone pulling away around him, heading towards the bar.

He cleared his throat. “Your round, isn’t it, John?” He called. John spun back around to look at him, smirking cheekily, dimples appearing on either side of his mouth.

“Only if you insist,” he grinned, and five minutes later he returned to Paul at the table that they had all occupied with a pint of lager and lime.

Astrid nudged him when he took his first sip – he looked at her, smiled politely.

“You’re looking tired,” she observed, opened her palm to reveal a pill in the middle of it.

Paul nodded at her, though it was less so fatigue and more so general haziness that was taking its toll on him. He popped the pill into his mouth, took a long gulp of his beer to wash it down.

“Thank you,” he said, and she wafted her hand lazily.

After that, the whole night ran by him in a high-speed whirl of conversation, music, drinks, laughter. It didn’t care in the slightest to slow down for him.

He found himself chatting away at the speed of light to Ayo, and couldn’t quite get himself to shut up.

“It’s just, you know,” he started, taking a swig of lager during their last break of the evening. She looked at him patiently, evidently trying not to laugh at him, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. “With John, like, he’s just – like, he’s such a fucking dick,” he spat, and this time, Ayo let out a loud laugh, shaking her head incredulously. “No, no! He is, though!”

He spun around in his seat and spotted John walking back over to their table from the toilets. He clicked his fingers in his direction and John jumped at the sound, a curious look on his face.

“John–” Paul called, laughing over the back of his chair. “John, aren’t you a bit of a dickhead?”

John looked between Paul and Ayo, so Paul clicked his fingers again to draw John’s attention back to him. To his relief, John laughed, waved his hand through the air nonchalantly. “Aye, yeah,” he agreed and continued walking over to them. “King of all tosspots, me.”

Paul nodded his thanks and twirled back to Ayo, who had raised a hand to cover her mouth as she feigned genuine intrigue. “See!” Paul exclaimed, pointing at John as if for emphasis. “Anyway, like I was saying – he’s a proper arsehole, but he’s the best guy as well, you know?” Ayo nodded. “You know?”

“Yes,” she chuckled. “Yes, I know.”

“Right, yeah,” Paul continued. “Because, you see, like, our, like, we write together and stuff, you know? And I _know him,_ and I know what he can be like, you know? He’s the _nicest_ guy you’d ever meet, like, so, so gentle, and lovely, and great, and like – I just wish he’d be like that a bit more–” he took a deep breath, something he’d neglected to do for a long while, before continuing. “But also, you’ve just sort of gotta love him for what he _is,_ right? And I do, you know. I love him.”

He finished his sentence, looking quite proud of himself for getting it all out there, and was appreciative when Ayo nodded her head.

He felt hands on his shoulders, looked up to see George rocking him back and forth incessantly. “We’re on!” He shouted, unnecessarily loudly, down Paul’s ear canal. Paul downed the rest of his drink, slammed it against the table with enough force that the whole structure trembled. George laughed triumphantly and patted him on the shoulder with pride, then led him towards the stage.

John was already up there, guitar strapped around his neck, fiddling with the mics with an intent looking frown on his face, trying to adjust it to the right height.

When Paul bounded up the stairs, he swung an arm over John’s shoulder, the mic wobbling on its stand – John had to grab it to stop it from falling straight over.

“Alright?” John asked, looking at him with sheer wonder.

“Spectacular!” Paul shouted, then jumped a little when he realised the mic was, in fact, on, and his voice filled the whole room, followed by a loud ringing as the sound triggered some feedback.

John laughed loudly, though his hand was covering the edge of the microphone now to shelter it from the rest of the club. “You’re gone, you,” he chuckled, pushed Paul away from him.

Paul rolled his eyes. “No, no,” he reassured. “I’m quite _here_ , actually.”

John sighed, patted his chest, and Paul grinned triumphantly at the contact. “Get your guitar,” he instructed. “Last set, now, ‘m sure ye’ can manage it.”

Paul grinned and spun to where his guitar had been waiting for him loyally, threw it around his neck and nearly tumbled over with the unprecedented weight of it.

He looked around the stage to find that everyone was in their designated positions; George was at the opposite side, Pete nestled comfortably behind his drum kit, Stuart sheltered behind George a little, fiddling with the strings on his bass unnecessarily. They were all waiting on him, Paul realised, but when John started speaking into the mic, he couldn’t help himself.

He sprung forward just as John had opened his mouth and snatched the mic off him – he was grateful when John made no real effort to fight him, just stepped away with a look of both shock and amusement.

Paul shot him a smirk, then started addressing the room.

“Err,” he mumbled, tapped the mic, then nodded and continued. “So, err, _Bob_ – Bob the Sailor, yeah, he’s given us a special request,” he lied enthusiastically, earned some scattered laughter from the crowd. He heard Brigitte howl encouragingly from her seat, her hands cupped around her mouth, so he smiled at her and shot her a wink. “Yes, thank you, thank you,” he added, then tore his eyes away from her and out to the rest of the room. “And, you see, Bob’s just got out of prison – so, today, we’re gonna’ start off with _Jailhouse Rock_ , special for Bob–” he stopped and turned to look at Stuart, adding, “You can do that one, can’t you, Stu?”

Stu just shrugged and nodded at him, evidently embarrassed. He heard George laughing hysterically, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. It wasn’t going to be on their original set list, Paul realised, but he had a sudden urge to do a bit of Elvis, get the room going and, most importantly, tease John incessantly. John had once said he had a look of Elvis, and he was still a bit proud of that, if he was honest with himself.

“So,” he said into the mic, giggling a little in exhilaration. “So, er, yeah -  this is _Jailhouse Rock!”_

He spun to the boys behind him, counted them in with a swift _one, two, three, four_ , and as the music kicked in, his own finger skidding easily down the neck of his guitar, his plec nestled confidently between his fingers, he twirled back towards the microphone, bellowed out long and screeching notes, like Elvis would.

 _“Warden threw a party at the county jail, the prison band was there and they began to wail; the band was jumpin’ and the joint began to swing, you should’ve heard those knocked out jailbirds sing, let’s rock–!”_ He turned to look at John at the side of the stage, who was smiling manically as he played his guitar with ease, bobbing on the spot. Paul shot him a smirk, revelled in the way John winked back at him before he continued with the chorus.

Come the second verse, Paul had made the decision to imitate Elvis more literally; he started off with, “ _Spider Murphy played the tenor saxophone; Little Joe was blowin’ on his slide trombone,”_ and, with each line change, he swivelled his hips erotically, his knees flying out in all kinds of direction as he strummed his instrument with force.

The crowd seemed to be enjoying the over-enthusiastic performance just as much as Paul was and, based on the sounds of John and George laughing into their shared microphone, the same could be said for the others, too.

He kept up his charade up until George’s solo, at which point he jumped to where George had been stood and allowed the younger boy to briefly take centre-stage, let him drag the solo out so that Paul could catch his breath a little.

John nudged him and shook his head wildly in his direction, which Paul copied, the two of them howling in hysterics, though Paul proceeded to twist his body around, even ground his hips against the back of his guitar at one point and, in the heat of it all, he almost missed the unmistakeable gesture of John swallowing down a lump in his throat, his Adam’s apple bouncing tauntingly.

Paul took over from George, then, and shot John a fleeting look as he moved back away from him. John looked flustered, Paul realised, like the whole interaction had thrown him off, and Paul felt _victorious,_ a literal victor rising from the ring, and if he let his eyes wander up and down John’s body a few too many instances throughout the rest of the set, _well_ , he just had to hope that nobody noticed. 

 

 

“How the fuck did you manage that, then?” George was saying, leaning against the wall outside of the door leading to their attic, smoking leisurely as girls walked past him and he eyed them with interest.

John was grinning and twirling a set of keys around his index finger cockily.

“I needed them to get the spare amp out of the cupboard,” he told them, smirking. “Barney gave ‘em to me. I just _forgot_ to give them back.”

Paul chuckled, rolled his eyes. “Oh,” he mused, a little sarcastic. “How convenient.” 

“Indeed it is,” Pete laughed, his arms folded over his chest. “Does it give us access to the drinks?”

John shook his head, mournful. “Doubt it,” he admitted. “But it means we don’t have to head back up to our grotty little den too soo– where are you goin’, then?”

Paul followed John’s eyes to see that George had started walking away from them, a girl by his side. He turned to look at them, grinning widely.

“Where d’you think?” He called back, tilting his head towards the petite thing on his arm.

Pete laughed. “Has she got a friend, then?” He shouted down the street and, as if by magic, a slightly taller girl with dark hair was stood next to him, wrapping her hand seductively over Pete’s arm, smiling sheepishly up at him.

“Hello,” Pete cooed, and didn’t even look back towards John and Paul as he started to walk in the same direction that George had done.

“Well,” Paul laughed, turned to look at John again. “Nevermind.”

“Pricks,” John spat, looking genuinely pissed off, until Stuart, Astrid, Klaus, Brigitte and Ayo appeared beside him.

“Girls?” Stuart asked, and John nodded, his face creased into a disgusted frown.

“Aye, what else?”

Astrid chuckled knowingly. “Let them have their fun,” she said, smacking John with an air of discipline about her. “I’m surprised you’re not doing the same.”

Paul turned when he felt someone tapping his arm, saw Brigitte stood below him, Ayo smiling at him.

“We’re going to go now,” Brigitte said, smiling eagerly. Paul looked between the two of them.

“So soon?” He teased, wiggling his eyebrows cheekily, chuckled when Ayo seemed a bit mortified at the inclination.

Brigitte scoffed. “Filth,” she chastised. “Thank you for having us, it was a really good night. I hope you had a good birthday.”

“Wunderbar,” he teased, and Ayo rolled her eyes at him. “See you soon, though, yeah?”

“Of course,” Brigitte promised, smiling happily. “See you soon, Paul.”

“Bye, buh-bye,” he called after them as they walked away, caught them inter-locking their arms, _just about_ companionable to the naked eye.

When he turned back around, John was looking at him and Stuart, Astrid and Klaus had disappeared.

“Just us, then?” He asked, moving to stand against the wall of the club and allowing the last few groups to depart past him.

“Seems like it,” John scoffed, disgruntled. “Fuckin’ flakes.”

Paul chuckled. “I don’t mind,” he said. “Can I have those keys? I’m gonna’ sit downstairs for a bit, y’know, might get the guitar,” he smiled and willed John to cheer up. “Fancy a jam?”

As predicted, John grinned, genuinely pleased, and handed Paul the keys. “I’m gonna’ nip upstairs,” John said. “Don’t have too much fun without me,” he said as he left Paul, by himself, in the street.

           

 

Paul found himself alone, then, stood amidst the darkness of the desolate dancefloor. He scuffed his shoe against the floorboards, his hands nestled in his pockets. He spotted the sky lightening up through the far windows of the bar, but the preludin he’d taken earlier took precedence over the hour, and he was wide awake.

Considering going to get his guitar, he changed his mind in favour of relishing the solitude with which he’d found himself. He managed to plonk himself down in the middle of the floor, crossed his legs. He realised, as his cheekbones twinged in discomfort, that he was still smiling. The night _had_ been a good one, as he’d anticipated. He internally thanked John for nicking that spare key, basked in the silence that enveloped him. He breathed, quite easily, and leaned back until his head was touching the floor. He unfolded his legs, let them sprawl out in front of him. He dug around in his pocket for a cig, brought it against his lips, but didn’t light it. Just let it sit there, almost thoughtfully.

He didn’t even hear when the door to the attic opened and booted footfalls made their way over to him. It was only when a voice that didn’t belong to him echoed between his ears that he opened his eyes, let his smile expand over his whole face.

“Alright, down there?” John said, stood a few paces away from where Paul lay.

“Johnny,” he breathed, went to lift himself up. John shushed him.

“No, no,” he chastised, shaking his head. “Don’t get up on my account.”

Paul laughed and lay back down, but watched intently as John walked closer, let his body fall to the floor, lowered his back slowly until his head was level with Paul’s, right next to him.

Paul turned his head to find that John was mirroring his position exactly, eyes rising and falling over his face. Paul giggled.

“It’s nice down here, init?” John said. “Might make this a regular thing, y’know.”

Paul sighed. “It _is,_ though,” he replied, sensing sarcasm in John’s tone. He watched John lick his lips, as if the world was in slow-motion. “Relaxing, like.”

John nodded. His hands were folded neatly across his stomach, one of his feet stacked on top of the other. Paul let his head fall back so he was staring at the ceiling, felt John do the same.

“Good night?” John asked. “I thought it was really good, you know, everyone being together and that. Ayo came too, which was gear, ‘cause I feel like we haven’t got to see her much. And also, we performed _great,_ and your voice was _immense_ on _Rip It Up_ , a real turn-on, and –”

 _“Shhhh,”_ Paul whispered, placed a hand over John’s mouth, his fingers covering his whole face. He let his eyes fall shut again. “Quiet.”

He felt John move his hand away, placed it neatly on the floor between them. “Sorry,” he said, though his voice sounded gruff and a little offended. “Prellies.”

“Mhm, I know,” Paul hummed. “Still.”

“Good night, though, yeah?”

Paul nodded. “Best in a long time,” he answered. “A real laugh.”

“Do you want me to light that?” John said, and Paul had almost forgotten that the cigarette was between his lips in the first place.

“Yeah,” he managed, opening his eyes. John was leaning up, now, hovering over him. His hair, which had lost some of its volume over the course of the evening, was falling haphazardly over his glasses. “Please.”

John did as he had offered, brought a zippo against Paul’s face. Paul watched the flame flicker and dance in front of him and, from his perspective, it appeared to be enveloping John. He blinked, and John’s hand fell away.

Paul took a long drag, then raised his fingers up to remove the cig from his mouth. “D’you want some?” He offered, holding it out over John.

“How generous of you,” John chuckled, but took the cig off him and inhaled anyway. Plumes of smoke rose above him and Paul watched, mesmerised.

He felt John’s fingers bump against his as he transferred the cigarette back into Paul’s hand, the heat from John’s body radiating towards him, but Paul made no move away from it. He welcomed it, even.

He heard John’s leather jacket squeak slightly as he moved his hands back over his stomach, heard denim rubbing against denim as he crossed his knees over one another. Paul was still smiling, for no particular reason. He felt like he was floating, felt static energy blurring between the peripheries of his synapses.

“I’m glad you had a good birthday,” John said after a while of passing Paul’s cigarette between them in silence. John’s voice came out forced, awkward, and Paul’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Ye deserved it, y’know.”

Paul let out a laugh. “Cheers,” he muttered as he took his cig back again. It was reaching the stub, felt heat threatening to burn his knuckles. He flicked it to the side with reckless abandon, only a slight hint of worry as to whether or not it’d bring the whole building tumbling down around them. “Thanks for the cake.”

John barked out a laugh. “Any time,” he said, waving his hand through the air as if emphasising the irrelevance. “Sorry George beat you to the first bite.”

“And the last,” Paul chuckled, rolling his eyes.

“And everything in the middle,” John continued.

Paul just shook his head, smiling fondly. Everything about the day had ran so smoothly, he couldn’t think of a single thing that he would have done _better._ The whole club had wished him a happy birthday, repeatedly, and he’d never felt more thankful for such a break from the dull happenings of reality.

“No girls, then?” John coughed out eventually, and Paul coughed back, spluttering a little.

He craned his neck to the side to look at the other man; John’s eyes were wide, innocent looking enough, but Paul felt a little bit attacked by the question. He tried to mute the frustration within him.

“No,” he answered, the word dragging out of his mouth. “Obviously.”

“Obviously?” John laughed. “Not very obvious to me, son. Yer always balls deep in some poor, unassuming lass.”

Paul swallowed. “’M not,” he defended, though he could see the truth in John’s words. “You are, too.”

“I know,” John said, nodding. “I’m just sayin’.”

“Well, don’t?” Paul laughed. He didn’t know _why_ he didn’t have a girl that night – he could have, more than easily, had received a bounty of generous offers. “I had a good time,” he said, eventually. “I wasn’t focused on girls.”

John nodded, but said nothing.

Paul considered his masterplan from earlier in the day, and it dawned upon him that he could have pulled about six times over, had he the dedication to utilise it. John could have, too.

“What about you?” Paul said, and John looked startled. “No girls for you, either, then?”

“Nah,” John replied, forced his eyes away from Paul’s and towards the ceiling. “Same old, same old. Gets boring after a while, you know.”

“Right,” Paul laughed, doubtful. “Okay then.”

“Do you still fancy a jam?” John diverted, sitting up and pushing himself away from Paul.

“Sure, if you want,” Paul agreed, but didn’t move, not yet. He didn’t really want a distraction, was content with just lying there, talking with John. He didn’t want it to end.

The thought struck a chord in Paul’s head and, in a moment of courage, he realised he didn’t want anything to be over, wanted to take advantage of the opportunity as it presented itself.

He felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck as he forced himself to speak.

“John,” he said, sitting up with his arm balanced languidly over his one raised knee. John stopped to look at him, spun on the spot so they were alongside one another, looking each other in the face.

“Aye?”

Paul swallowed thickly; he decided, in that moment, that it had to be all or nothing. He wasn’t cutting about, that day, with anymore subtleties, no discrete touching when no one could see. He wanted it all, he knew, wanted to know if John would give it. He remembered a dream he’d had, once, an ode to time running out. He refused to accept it as gospel.

“It’s my birthday,” he whispered, his eyes dark, sheltered almost entirely by his eyelashes. He saw John tilt his head, bushy eyebrows drawn up in the middle of his forehead. He stared at his lips instead though, which were glistening with the light of the early morning, smooth and inviting, his teeth nibbling the inside of them as if it was leisurely. “Can I have a kiss?”

John’s smile was disbelieving, somewhere between confusion and elation, Paul thought, but said nothing else. He maintained his gaze for what seemed like a long time before John spoke.

“What, seriously?” He asked, incredulous. Paul nodded his head, but shrugged his shoulders all the same.

“It’s been a while,” he argued, tasted the understatement on his tongue. “And like you said. No girls.”

John feigned offence. “Oh, so I’m second best now, s’that it?”

Paul laughed, all coy and flirtatious. “Well, you’re not exactly the easiest of catches.”

“There’s a line of women who’d beg to differ.”

Paul shrugged again, felt as though he was actually nowhere. He recalled asking John to kiss him, all that time ago in the Cavern, having to deal with the stab of rejection he’d received. All of the _maybe later_ s that never arrived, all of the frustrated scowls shot in his direction. He’d got the feeling that they were past that, though, that John had _surrendered,_ that they’d drawn a line under it all. Perhaps, though, it was just a gravely misjudged presumption. He felt imaginary walls rising above and around him, the distance between them lengthening intrinsically.

“Doesn’t matter,” he diverted, turned his eyes away from John to look at his hand. “Was just an idea.”

When he looked back up, John was staring at him with an intensity that he hadn’t seen in a while, like he was searching for something manically within Paul’s expression, within his words.

“You meant it, though,” John breathed. Paul swallowed. “Didn’t you?”

Paul just blinked at him. “I’ve always _meant it,”_ he bit out. He’d been gnawing at his bottom lip without realising, and he felt it wince in protest. “It was you who didn’t want to anymore, remember. Not _me_.”

John gaped at him. Paul watched his tongue dance inside his mouth, indecisive for a place to lay it, trying to sew a response together.

“I thought it was _done,”_ he argued, suddenly seeming angry. Paul felt his defences preparing for battle. “You said – you said, it was _done_ , and I – I _told you_ I was finished with the pissin’ about, like you said,” he gasped, like he was about to cry, and Paul just regarded him, let out a sigh of exhaustion. “You turned _me_ away, in the end.”

Despite himself, Paul let out a long howl of laughter and let his head fall back, shut his eyes. “ _Jesus,_ ” he cursed, looked at John again. “Were we _always_ this shit at communicatin’?”

John shrugged. “Guess so,” he admitted, looking deflated. “Sorry, like.”

Paul cleared his throat. “Ah, well,” he said, went to stand up. He was stood over John, now, his hands back in his pockets, looking down at him. John’s eyes looked wide, sparkling a little. His pupils were still dilated twice their size with the preludin from earlier, his jaw tense from talking endlessly. “It doesn’t matter. Just wondered.”

“Wondered _what?”_ John spat. “Sit back down. We’re not walkin’ away from this again. I can’t be arsed with it.”

Paul raised an eyebrow at him, but let himself sit back down anyway. “Okay,” he managed, knowing his expression must have looked defensive, because John rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Well, go on then,” John ordered. “Say your bit.”

“I _wondered,_ ” he started. “If we could still _do it._ And it still feel as _good._ And if you’d want to, and if – well, if it was done,” he breathed. John’s expression, if Paul wasn’t mistaken, appeared softer. “Then… then, yeah, y’know, it’s done. If none of those things feel the same. But it–“ he faltered, for a moment, as John’s face remained unchanging. He sighed. “It doesn’t matter, now, you’re right, it wouldn’t work, it was stupid, ’m sorry.”

John clenched his eyes shut and shook his head. “It’s – it’s not stupid,” he said, and Paul raised his eyebrows in shock. “It’s – yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah, okay, fine. Let me kiss you.”

“What?” Paul gaped, his jaw falling open. John shuffled closer to him, so their torsos were almost parallel. He put an arm on the other side of Paul’s thighs to steady himself, and then their faces were inches apart. John’s breath was warm against his face, and Paul felt suffocated by it.

“Let me,” John whispered. Paul blinked, almost went to pinch himself. “We’ll give it a go, y’know.”

“I–” Paul blinked, shook his head. “Do you want to?”

John sighed. “You gonna’ let me kiss you or not?”

Paul willed himself to forget that this was something he’d been waiting for for as long as he could remember, or so it seemed. Tried to take his mind back to the place that it was at earlier on, when it almost felt as though the last few months, years, had never even happened, that they were just John and Paul, in love and lusting after one another and basking in music, and fun, and _life._

He felt John’s nose bump against his own, and then their foreheads were touching; he hadn’t even been aware that they’d been gravitating towards one another, and the touch of skin against skin threw him off. He blinked rapidly, opened his mouth, though no words came out.

John laughed. “You sure about this, then?” He chuckled. He brought a hand up to the back of Paul’s neck, his fingers tugging on the ends of his hair. “Ye’ look as though yer’ about to enter cardiac arrest.”

Paul laughed, embarrassingly loudly, and leaned away anyway. The sensation of John’s palm now flat against his head was warm and inviting, and he craned his head into the touch.

“Maybe I am,” Paul tittered. He dared himself to raise one of his hands, put it in the same position on the back of John’s neck as John’s was against his. Their heads bumped together again, and they were both grinning madly for no real reason.

The magnetism between them in that moment was, really, counter-productive; while they were pulling one another closer with their hands, their lips refused to meet. Paul found himself suffering from a bad case of the giggles, and John couldn’t seem to suppress his grin. It felt like pressing the positive ends of two batteries together, and he was beginning to grow almost tired of the suspense.

“Go on, then,” Paul encouraged, smirking a little. He traced his middle finger up and down John’s neck, watched as John shivered with the contact. 

John dissolved into laughter, a mix of nervous cackles and long, drawn out breaths – Paul found that he couldn’t help but do the same, though they were laughing against each other’s faces, now, uselessly, doing nothing but prolonging the moment.

“Right,” John coughed. “Okay, then.”

Paul sealed his lips shut, tried to stifle the giggles that he truthfully couldn’t trace back to any justifiable reason. John did the same, let out one long, cool exhale against Paul’s face, let his expression relax.

Their noses grazed either side of each other. Paul forgot to breathe, but a final chuckle escaped his lips anyway as he felt the skin of John’s tickling against them, not kissing yet, just touching.

“Stop laughin’,” John chuckled through gritted teeth. “We’ve not got all day, you know.”

“I know,” Paul laughed, forced his eyes closed. “Sorry.”

“S’alright,” John whispered. Paul felt his fingers massaging his scalp softly, hummed in pleasure at the sensation.

“Right,” John announced, all gruff and masculine, then another laugh. “Jesus,” he breathed, shook his head and, in turn, shook Paul’s as well. “C’mere, you daft sod,” he exhaled, and kissed him.

As soon as their lips collided, Paul’s mouth fell open as if on-queue, a moan falling naturally into John’s mouth.

The kiss wasn’t tender, as their first had been originally. It was all-consuming, overbearing in every way, alight with the deprivation of the last few months; John’s tongue made its way into Paul’s mouth with ease, slid over his own, then his bottom lip, while Paul let it happen. He was gripping the hair at the back of John’s neck like it was a lifeline, pulling him in close; he brought his spare arm up, balanced his elbows precariously on John’s shoulders, trapping him within the embrace, within the kiss, and it was _everything._

John’s arms fell from the back of Paul’s neck and down to his waist, wrapping around his mid-section tightly, their chests pressed together. John bit down on his bottom lip, and his head lolled back in ecstasy, a low and guttural groan enveloping them.

It was everything Paul had hoped it would be, and then some. In that instant, he didn’t care about what would happen afterwards – if John would decide that it _was,_ indeed, _done._ It didn’t matter, not then, not whilst Paul was wrapped up securely in John’s arms, their lips smacking together hotly, wet and warm, their tongues overlapping.

He felt John tugging him closer, so he obliged, slotted himself on John’s lap, then chuckled into the kiss when he fell in between John’s thighs, his legs arched over the side of one.

John let out the quietest of growls, and Paul’s heartbeat sped up, pounding against John’s chest – he hoped John could feel it, could sense the way he made Paul feel. As if to ensure it, Paul allowed himself to breathe out John’s name, repeatedly. _Johnny,_ he mumbled, biting down on John’s lip. _Johnny,_ he managed, as John’s hands slipped down a little to cup Paul’s bum, tender and rough all at once.

“I know,” John growled. “I know, ‘m here, I know,” he stuttered between kisses, and Paul gasped aloud when John let Paul’s head tilt back, started nipping and kissing the rough, freshly shaven skin of his neck.

Paul took the opportunity to breathe – just _breathe_ , for a moment, establish some clarity, before he tucked his face against John’s hair, inhaled deep and long, let the smell of _John_ overwhelm his senses. 

He felt his jeans tightening around his crotch and, as if he could _sense it,_ John untangled one arm from his waist, started palming him through his pants.

He groaned loudly, and John pressed his lips firmly against Paul’s again, shutting him up immediately.

“C’mon,” John ushered, tracing his fingertips along Paul’s length. “Up,” he commanded, though it didn’t register in Paul’s head until he gripped Paul’s wrist, started pulling them both up and off the floor, taking a moment to grab the keys off the ground.

“Wha–” Paul managed, but John kissed him again once they were both stood up, facing each other, discombobulating him completely. 

“Not here,” he growled, and Paul opened his eyes. Through the bleariness of them, he could see John’s cheeks had flushed bright red, his eyes were clouded over and, if it were even possible, his pupils had taken precedence over his entire iris. Paul swallowed, felt his groin throbbing with _want._

Before he could reply, John had started to tug him determinedly towards a store cupboard by the side of the stage, and Paul managed a laugh at the absurdity of it.

“The cupboard?” He asked, shaking his head when John stopped opposite it and started fumbling with the keys to unlock it. “How old are you?”

John shrugged. “The others might come back,” he reasoned, and before Paul could respond he was being pulled into the darkness, the door shutting behind him.

John found the string which turned on the light after some blind fumbling, and once they were lit up, Paul smiled.

“Is it–” he started, but changed his mind immediately. If John’s answer was _no, it’s not the same, we’re done,_ then Paul thought that could _probably_ wait until after they’d slept. Instead, he ran his eyes over John’s patient face; he was panting, still, looking at Paul like he was everything he wanted, and that would be enough, Paul thought, for now. _Lust_ was better than nothing at all.

He flew himself at John with very little care for the shelves stacked around them; a couple of boxes tumbled onto the floor, and Paul thought he heard something smash, but it didn’t matter; his hands were tangled in John’s hair, John’s hands were gripping his arse and pulling him up, their groins gliding together, the friction from John’s jeans sending shockwaves through Paul’s whole body.

John pushed back, after a while, so that Paul’s back was up against the opposite shelves. Paul placed his hands either side of him, against the shelf, and when John lowered his own between Paul’s legs, parted his thighs and slid easily between them, Paul let him.

John’s hand was gripping one of his thighs and pulling it up so it sat on his hip; John ground into him, gasped against Paul’s mouth with the friction.

They kissed like that for a while, in the same position, their lips interlocked through the whole encounter, John grinding and grinding and _grinding_ against Paul’s crotch until Paul thought he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Johnny,” he whispered urgently, bucked his hips up against the other. “John, I–”

“Mhm,” John mumbled and dropped Paul’s leg suddenly. “Gotcha,” he said, and Paul laughed when John started peppering kisses down Paul’s jugular, over his shirt, started tugging at the buttons of his trousers.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Paul cursed, eyes fluttering shut in both pleasure and utter incredulity. He couldn’t fathom that this was actually happening, that John, seemingly, _wanted_ him, after all that time of believing that it was a prospect so far out of reach.

He felt his trousers being tugged forcefully down his thighs, slipping over his knees and down to the floor, pooling around his ankles as John slotted himself between Paul’s feet, kneeling beneath him.

“ _John_ ,” Paul breathed when John started mouthing at him through his underwear, felt his cock graze against a slight damp spot against the fabric where pre-cum had already begun to leak out of him.

When John wrapped his fingers beneath his waistband and tugged his Y-fronts down, Paul let out a nervous titter as he felt his length fall out, eager and hard, and John returned the sound like a duet.

He didn’t hesitate, though, and before Paul could process it, John had taken him into his mouth.

He whimpered emphatically, sounded a bit like a sob, and it almost could have been when he realised that John had brought up one of his hands towards the shelf where Paul’s hand lay, started intertwining their fingers tenderly, stroking his thumb against Paul’s.

John lapped his tongue over the tip of Paul’s dick, purely tasting him, before he let his lips tighten around the circumference, slid easily along it, taking as much as he could into his mouth, humming against it.

“Jesus, fuck,” Paul gasped, bucked into John’s mouth, still lost in the thought of _how is this happening to me right now oh my God,_ barely even accepting what was going on around him as little more than an elaborate and realistic _dream_. He gripped John’s fingers back, as if for reassurance, felt himself relax a little when John gave his hand a gentle squeeze in return.

John’s free hand was dancing lazily up and down his thigh, tickling him, and when John pulled off of Paul’s length, Paul choked on a moan.

“What are you d–”

“Shh,” John shushed him, and Paul opened one eye, looked down at John, who had placed two of his fingers into his mouth and was sucking on them with intent.

Paul groaned loudly, the sound pulsating around them. “Yes,” he begged, would have been ashamed if he’d had the consciousness to _care_. “Yes, yes, _please._ ”

“Alright, alright,” John laughed when he slipped his fingers out of his mouth and placed them, with shocking familiarity, between Paul’s thighs, pushing against the entrance.

“Relax,” he encouraged, but didn’t have to; Paul opened his thighs a little wider more than willingly, let himself slip down onto the two digits.

“Jesus,” John gasped, angled his arm into a comfier position. Paul hissed sharply at the feeling of being filled up, his whole body fighting against the intrusion. “Both?”

Paul nodded manically. “Yeah,” he managed, adjusting his hips slightly so that John’s fingers could glide through the rings of muscle a little easier. “Both, everything, need it,” he gasped, and John’s laugh was more encouraging than anything.

“Alright, princess,” he conceded, then gasped in pain when Paul gripped his hand _tight,_ moaned out when John’s fingers finally pressed against his prostate, massaging the muscle tenderly.

John took Paul back into his mouth, then, his tongue pressing firmly against the underside; in the same instant, he pulled his fingers out, then reinserted them, and Paul swore he felt his head _spinning_.

“John,” he growled. “ _Move._ ”

John hummed his consent against Paul’s cock and started to slide his fingers in and out with some more ease, Paul wincing a little with the pain, until there was nothing left but incomprehensible pleasure. John’s wrist moved quickly and aptly, stretching Paul as he did so; in an identical rhythm he bobbed his head, taking so much of Paul into his mouth that Paul often bumped against the back of John’s throat, muttered hurried whispers of apologies for his reckless hip-jerking; with each time, John’s fingers would graze against the back of Paul’s hand comfortingly.

As the pace quickened, so did Paul’s need for release; he started jolting his hips downwards against John’s fingers, faster, gasping each time, louder and louder and _louder._

He felt that familiar heat pooling in his groin and he lifted his free hand, planted it into the auburn curls at the top of John’s head, losing control completely. He heard John gasp against the tip of Paul’s dick, so he stilled for a second, willing himself to slow down.

“Okay?” Paul managed, panting, and John nodded, his eyes focused on Paul, throbbing, in front of him.

“Yeah,” he reassured, his voice raspy, rough around the edges. “Don’t hold back,” he instructed, before taking Paul into his mouth again, his fingers scissoring his arsehole eagerly and with little jurisdiction.

Paul did as he was told; rocking his hips down against John’s fingers, then up and into his mouth, as quick and reckless as he could manage, his eyes clenched shut in concentration. John sucked relentlessly with each thrust, and Paul felt himself being pushed over the edge, rapidly, quicker than he wanted.

“I’m–” he started, a warning, but John just groaned greedily against Paul’s thrusts.

White noise enveloped him as he came, spilling out shamelessly into John’s mouth; he opened his mouth to groan, but couldn’t have been certain that the sound actually made it further than his own mind. His hips stuttered in their movements, growing lazy as he rode through his orgasm.

He hissed in protest when John removed his fingers; Paul wrapped his fist around John’s shirt, yanked him up and smacked their lips together, tasting _himself_ in John’s mouth, a real and saline reminder of what had just happened.

When John pulled away, he leaned his forehead against Paul’s.

Paul opened his eyes, panting heavily, struggling to get his breathing under any control; his vision was blurry, and he tried to fathom out what John was thinking, what he’d say about it all, if John had _enjoyed_ it.

John frowned, then, and Paul felt his nose fizzing as if he were about to cry.

“Don’t,” John said, his voice soft and concerned. It was only then that Paul realised that tears had started to prickle at the edge of his eyelids, tarnishing his lashes, and he breathed out a sob, tried to look away, had no idea what the _fuck_ he was crying for.

“Baby, don’t, it’s – what’s–” John started then, neglecting his mission, wrapped his arms around Paul’s shoulders and held Paul close against his chest.

Paul was grateful for the silence because, in truth, he didn’t have an answer to give. He was utterly overwhelmed, uncomprehending of what his mind was trying to do as he retched raw sobs against the leather of John’s jacket, felt John’s hands stroking through his hair.

Paul flung his arms around John in turn, clenched his fists into the back of his shirt.

John didn’t say anything at all, and neither did Paul.

Paul wondered, in the back of his mind, if they’d ever really have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooof, so, there it is, folks.
> 
> Please let me know what you thought in the comments, leave kudos, shoot me an ask over to @distinguished-like on tumblr, etcetc!! Thank y'all so much for reading!


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